


The Winchester Brothers and the Big Freaking Snake

by Open_Fire



Series: The Winchester Brothers and the Big Freaking Snake [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chamber of Secrets, Gen, Set during Harry Potter Timeline, Teacher Dean Winchester, Teacher Sam Winchester, Wizard Dean, Wizard Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 35,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7135778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Open_Fire/pseuds/Open_Fire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean never saw themselves as good role models. Wanted by the Magical Congress of the United States and the American government, even they would be their last choices for teaching at Britain's most prestigious school, Hogwarts. But hey, apparently killing monsters for a living gives them better qualifications than winning Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile award.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dust N' Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"There's no logic here today._   
>  _Do as you got to, go your own way_   
>  _I said that's alright_   
>  _Time's short, your life's your own_   
>  _And in the end_   
>  _We are just dust n' bones"_   
>  _\- Guns n' Roses_

“Hurry up, Sammy! This ghost ain’t getting any deader!” Sam hears the crack of a gunshot above him emphasizing his brother’s point. 

The lip of the grave Sam’s digging is up past his eyes, but he still manages to toss a shovel-full of dirt with relatively good aim if Dean’s squawk is anything to go by. Pressing the shovel into the ground once more, Sam hears a wet crack like stepping on a rotten tree branch. Sam huffs in triumph, continuing to clear enough space to crack open what’s left of the coffin with his shovel. His nose wrinkles when he catches sight of the long deceased Richard Thornley’s skull grinning maniacally at him.

“Still fighting a ghost up here!” Dean calls over the apparition’s shriek as he lets off another round of salt. Muttering obscenities under his breath, Sam breaks open the rest of the coffin with precision that only someone who digs up graves every other week could attain. 

“We’re good Dean. I’m coming up,” Sam warns Dean before he tosses his shovel up and follows it out of the grave with surprising grace. Hastily, he grabs the gasoline can they’d brought from the Impala and dumps it liberally over the bones. Sam checks his pockets desperately, ready to set fire to the bones of the bastard who made him spend his night sweating and dirty while listening to Dean hum Led Zeppelin in what his brother probably thought was his best impression of Robert Plant, but might have been an attempt to mimic the cats in the alley beside their motel. 

After a series of pats that would put seasoned Macarena dancers to shame, Sam curses under his breath. “Dean! I need a light!” Sam grabs his own gun which rests against the headstone, and takes his brother’s place keeping the ghost at bay. He pretends to not notice the look of disappointment on Dean’s face as the older Winchester contemplates disowning his brother. But a strange combination of a groan and a growl coming from Dean makes him spare a glance over. Sam sees Dean empty handed and angry.

“Way to go, college boy! Who was it that was supposed to get some more lighters at the gas station?!”

“Who is it that keeps throwing the damn things into grave like they’re matches?!”

“Hey, you do it too!”

“Because you taught me to do it that way!”

“I also thought I taught you to not be a little bitch, but here you are –,” Sam’s gun gives an empty click and the boys both pause to look at the spectre of Richard Thornley standing about ten feet away from them grinning like Christmas has just come early . Or Halloween. 

“Hey Sammy,” Dean whispers as if the ghost is an angry bear he's trying not to startle into mauling them. “How fast do you think we can get to Baby after torching this sucker?”

Sam sighs with resignation. “Pretty damn fast if we’re gonna do what I think we are.”

“Not really another option here, matchless-wonder. Ready?” Sam nods and straightens his shoulders. His fingers twitch in anticipation. “NOW!”  
With lightning speed, Sam reaches for the stick strapped to the small holster against his back and points it at the grave. 

_“Incendio!”_ Sam shouts and flames spew from the stick and ignite the gasoline. 

_“Engorgio!"_ Dean calls with his own stick pointing at the grave, causing the flames to grow to impossible heights. Sam takes a step back as a wave of heat rolls over him. In record speed, the bones are disintegrated, and Thornley’s ghost disappears with a scream that falls onto deaf ears. The Winchesters quickly switch their efforts from feeding the flames to transporting the dirt back onto the grave with identical swish and flick movements. Sam stoops over to pick up the shovel and almost secures the shot gun when the shouting starts. 

_“Expelliarmus!”_ Startled, Sam finds both the shovel and his wand yanked out of his hands as if pulled by a string. Glancing over at Dean, Sam sees that he is also empty handed.

“Sam and Dean Winchester. I suppose requesting that you to confine your crazy to the reasonable hours of the morning would be too much to ask?"

“Hendrickson.” Dean spits the name like it’s a curse, but the Congress agent just stares coldly back, confident that the brothers wouldn’t escape the several black robed agents surrounding them. Sam thinks he catches the sight of fuzzy slippers beneath one man’s cloak while surveying the bleary eyed agents around him, but he can’t be sure. 

“You boys are in a heap of trouble.”

“Aren’t we always?” Sam says with a wry grin. 

“Don’t get smart with me, Winchester.” Hendrickson snaps, pointing his wand at Sam. 

“He can’t help it. Smart is kind of his thing,” Dean drawls, earning himself a glare which he returns with a cocky smirk. “So, seeing as you are the ones with the wands - and I commend you all for your bravery against us poor, unarmed selves,” he says with mock sincerity, “how can we help you on this fine summer night?” 

Sam resists the urge to kick Dean. The last thing they need is to piss off these guys more. They are probably on edge already from being woken up in the middle of the night to catch some renegade wizards. For his part, Sam’s doing his best to not make any sudden movements, even if it means his leg muscles are starting to twitch uncomfortably. 

“Sam and Dean Winchester, you are under arrest for numerous violations of the Statute of Secrecy, the murders of countless people and protected magical creatures, which frankly, I don’t have time to list out, misusing no-mag artifacts, and plenty of other petty crimes which are so far beneath my jurisdiction that I don’t even give a damn.”  
“Really?" Dean feigns surprise. "I thought for sure that jaywalking I did the other day was what set you over the edge.”

Sam’s list of possible escape plans was a lot shorter than Hendrickson’s list of accusations. His left leg begins to twitch more in protest of its current position.

“You could come quietly with us,” Hendrickson continues, pointedly ignoring Dean, “or we could stun you both into tomorrow. It really doesn’t matter to me which way we do it."  
Sam can’t take it anymore. Slowly and deliberately, he shifts his feet to a more comfortable position. 

_“Incarcerous!”_ Sam suddenly finds himself tied up with ropes and in an effort to avoid breaking his face on the graveyard dirt, twists sharply and hits the ground with a pained grunt. 

“Kinky,” Dean quips, glancing at the man who must have fired the curse with blatant distaste. “You know, I really thought that you aurors had better things to do than chase after two guys who spend their Friday nights taking strolls in graveyards. Aren’t there some loiterers or underage drinkers that you can bother instead?” Sam thinks that Dean had better have a good plan if he was going to rile up the people with wands. But with each pointed glance that Dean throws Sam, he begins to think that his brother is just waiting for Sam to pull a plan out of his ass. But with an inward groan, Sam realizes what his brother had been waiting for. 

It really has been a long time since they’d done magic. 

Sam finally returns Dean’s glance with a subtle nod. He exhales slowly as he focuses of splitting his mind into two simultaneous thoughts.

Inhales. Sam can imagine the magic coursing through his veins, unused for years now, but strong and steady like a snake poised to strike or a dog waiting for the order to 'sick ‘em, boy.' 

Sam exhales, and he released both streams of magic, one sending a wave of force at the aurors, toppling them like bowling pins, and another to summon his and Dean’s wands to their hands. Dean promptly burns the ropes tying Sam and offers him a hand which Sam quickly takes. With a sensation much like being pushed through a small tube, Sam finds himself lying next to the Impala where Dean had parked her several blocks from the graveyard. 

Sam lands against the road painfully, but it only serves to bring his mind sharply back into focus. “Dean, you’ve gotta-“

“Portkey. On it.” Not letting go of Sam’s hand, Dean taps his wand on the hood of the Impala. _“Portus.”_ Nothing changes that Sam can see, but when Dean gently touches the Impala, they are once again jerked off their feet as they travel across miles and miles of the United States within seconds. Sam feels like his belly button is about to be yanked off, but almost as soon as the feeling starts, it stops, leaving deep seated discomfort in its place. 

Sam doesn’t care whether they are in Canada or Timbuctoo, he just rolls and presses his face into the cool grass, trying to stop the world from spinning around him, or at least keep his greasy supper where he had put it. When he no longer feels like the world is a merry-go-round on steroids, he gives thought to his surroundings. 

“Wer-er-weh,” He mumbles into the grass. Glancing above his arm, Sam sees Dean sitting on the ground with his back against the Impala’s front tire. He looks a little pale, but he has a shit-eating grin on his face that tells Sam he is doing okay. 

“Wow, I didn’t know you could speak ogre, little brother.” 

Sam steels his stomach and unclenches his teeth to try again. "Where are we?” Dean huffs a laugh and opens his mouth to reply, but another voice cuts off any answer he might have given. 

“You blasted boys think you can get away with not even sending a damn post card for five months and then appear on my front lawn in the middle of the night, set off all my wards, and damn near give me a heart attack? I ought to hex both of your asses so hard your ancestors will be rolling in their graves!”

“What, did we trample your petunias or something?” Dean laughs, earning himself a smack on the head and an offered arm. Sam watches Dean take it to pull himself up, and he embraces the man tightly. “Hey, Bobby.”  
-.-.-.-  
It had taken Sam the promise of a cold beer and a few more minutes to fully regain control of his stomach before he could get himself off of the ground and into the house. Dean had opted to drive the Impala closer to the house and park her properly, but Sam was fairly sure he would also be checking every inch of her to ensure she was running properly after being turned into a portkey. Sam explained to Bobby everything that had happened during the past five months until the old man was properly placated, and his mother hen instincts had calmed down. 

It was the usual – saving people by hunting down the nasty things of the night, and avoiding the Magical Congress of the United States as they tried to track down the notorious Winchesters. As for not checking in with Bobby, it was just a matter of being too busy killing the things wanting to kill them and forgetting about the things that really mattered. Bobby told him as much, but he was a little less kind about it, making Sam wince with guilt and begin composing a formal apology to Ellen and Jo, both of whom he hadn’t seen since they had last driven through Nebraska. In February. Last year.

Sam watches as Bobby’s face morphs slowly from anger to thickly veiled affection at seeing his surrogate sons again. “Just as well you boys arrived when you did, although I don’t quite appreciate waking up to sirens, bells, and horns. Something’s come up that might tickle your fancy.”

“Really? New case?” It was rare these days that something came up that the Winchester brothers hadn’t yet faced. Having been raised in the life, they’d seen everything from chupacabras to rawheads so Bobby sometimes got Sam and Dean to take on really troublesome creatures. But the majority of cases he would give to hunters who were not wanted by both the no-mag government and the Magical Congress. 

“You could say that. But it will wait until morning. I for one want to get some sleep, and I know Dean will spend half the night fondling his girl until he knows she’s alright.” Sam cringes slightly at the comparison. “Beer’s in the fridge, and ravioli’s in the cupboard. Help yourself.” Bobby walks off to his bedroom, groaning almost as much as the old wooden stairs without so much as a “good night,” but Sam knows that Bobby offering his alcohol to anyone was a sign that he didn’t hate their guts as much as he might seem to.  
After cracking open a beer and draining the bottle dry, Sam sets about clearing both couches of books and weapons, allowing the alcohol to relax the tension that had steadily built up over the last hour. Bobby’s wards would keep the aurors from tracking where he and Dean had disappeared to, and Sam grins as he imagines Hendrickson’s frustration at losing his first lead in months.

Walking over to the small closet in the living room turned storage room, Sam grabs his favourite blanket and pillow which he puts on the smaller of the two couches, knowing he would just get a rude awakening from Dean after he came in from checking the car if Sam was on 'his' couch. As an afterthought, Sam also tosses Dean’s favourite blanket and pillow onto the larger couch before turning off the lights, curling up on the old, familiar furniture and falling asleep.


	2. What do you Want from Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Do you think I know something you don't know?_   
>  _If I don't promise you the answers would you go?_   
>  _Should I stand out in the rain?_   
>  _Do you want me to make a daisy chain for you?_   
>  _I'm not the one you need._   
>  _What do you want from me?"_   
>  _\- Pink Floyd_

It’s the smell of coffee and bacon that eventually wakes Sam up. It’s out of place, but he supposes Dean has just come back from a diner with a hot breakfast to celebrate another successful case. Upon opening his eyes though, Sam doesn’t see the cracked wallpaper and questionable stains of bedsheets over him, but motes of dust illuminated by the morning sun and a miniature library surrounding him. Memories of the previous night hit him in a wave. 

Using magic to torch the ghost, Hendrickson and company appearing, and then escaping to Bobby’s place. Sam rubs a hand over his face to wipe the last bit of sleep from his eyes and to reorient his mental map to Bobby’s house. Heaving himself off the couch, Sam stretches and curses that Dean still insists of taking the larger couch despite his shorter stature. Sam notes that the couch in question has a pillow with a Dean-shaped imprint, but although Dean is no longer there, Sam suspects he knows where to find him. 

As Sam lumbers into the kitchen, a cup of coffee in a chipped mug is thrust at him. He takes it from Dean gratefully and sits across from Bobby at the small kitchen table, leaving his brother to continue pretending to be Gordon Ramsey, but with less yelling and swearing. Sam sips the coffee appreciatively – Bobby, for all his cheap liquor and philosophies of rough living building character, has always held quality coffee in high regard, much to Sam’s delight. 

“Mornin’, Sam. Did you sleep alright?” Bobby asks. 

“As good as I can when everything below my knees is hanging over the edge of the couch,” Sam glares at the back of Dean’s head as he works over the stove. 

“Why didn’t you just make the couch longer?” Bobby asks in disbelief, and in an instant, Sam feels like an idiot. 

“Using magic again will take some getting used to,” Sam groans with his face in his hands. 

“I’ll get the couch fixed up for tonight,” Bobby assures. “If you’d believe it, I’d forgotten how much you’d outgrown that couch.”

The click of ceramic on wood has Sam’s stomach growling in anticipation. He takes his hands from his face and sees a plate full of scrambles eggs, bacon, and toast. “Thanks, Dean,” he says before shovelling the eggs into his mouth. Bobby had been given a plate too but with slightly smaller portions of food. 

“Just be glad Bobby had eggs in the fridge that weren’t expired and bread that wasn’t mouldy.” Dean says, setting his own plate down next to Bobby who flicks his head without looking up from his plate or stopping eating. 

“So Bobby,” Sam says, swallowing his mouthful of food. “You mentioned yesterday that you had a case for us. What is it?” 

“I’ve got an old friend who should arrive this afternoon. I sent him a letter last night telling him you two were here. I think we should wait until he gets here - no sense explaining everything twice,” Bobby says. Sam nods and continues eating.

“Well, Baby’s running fine, thanks for asking,” Dean comments after a short silence. 

“If anything happened, it would have been because of your shoddy magic,” Sam says.

“Sorry, did you suddenly become The Human Torch? How did you plan on burning a ghost’s bones without even a broken match?” 

Sam opens his mouth to fire an insult back but Bobby interjects. “That’s what forced you to use magic and get the Congress on your asses again?” He sounds incredulous. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived this long. Idjits.” Sam and Dean both laugh. 'It’s good to be home.' Sam thinks as he chews on his bacon with a smile on his face. 

-.-.-.-

Sam ends up spending the rest of the morning looking through new additions to Bobby’s book collection. There are some which are just compilations of other books he already has, but Sam takes some of the more exciting ones outside to read on the back porch. Bobby threatens his health if Sam doesn’t return them to the shelf in the same condition they left. Sam has a feeling it’s an empty threat delivered any time he or Dean use Bobby’s collection for research, but he’s never tested it, and he doesn’t intend to now.  
Sam settles into the old Muskoka chair, putting his notebook on one wooden arm and the stack of books on the other, ready to write out notes he finds interesting or important. As Sam gleans information from the books, he hears the sounds of Dean working away at fixing one of the cars in Bobby’s garage. 

Sam won’t be surprised if several other cars come in over the next few days from word of mouth getting around that Bobby’s nephew is back in town. Dean’s learned everything he knows about cars from John and Bobby, but his special care for the Impala over the years has given him a knack for fixing almost any problem cars can have in no time. Some of the locals know this, and they like to have Dean check up their cars when he’s stopped by Sioux Falls for a visit of any length. 

By around noon, Sam’s become so engrossed in the books that he is reading that he is surprised when he glances up to find that he is sharing the porch with about half a dozen of Bobby’s ravens. One of them has a letter strapped to its leg, crawing to be relieved of its burden.

While Bobby usually sticks with typical white envelope paper from the corner store, this one is made of yellowed parchment and has a fancy red seal pressed with what looks like a crest of sorts. The image tickles something in Sam’s memory, but the letter is addressed to Bobby, so he takes it inside. Axl, as Dean had named the bird many years ago, flies over and perches on Sam’s shoulder, nipping at his ears. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you some treats. I’m sure Bobby’s got some in the-“ Sam raises his wand on instinct, judging it to be a better weapon against the bearded man in robes sitting at the kitchen table. The man doesn’t so much as flinch as he sips from his cup of tea. In fact, he slowly sets it down and opens his mouth to speak just as Sam’s opens his to demand an explanation. Before either can speak, Bobby opens the front door and surveys his kitchen.

“Oh for pete’s sake, boy, but your damn wand down. Do you honestly think I would let someone in my house that I didn’t trust, let alone serve them tea?” Bobby asks.  


Sam sputters, “Well, no, but-“ 

“Who let Gandalf in? If I knew we were having a Lord of the Rings marathon, I’d have brought by sword.” Dean traipses in behind Bobby and goes to the sink to wash his hands of oil and other grime from the car he was working on. 

“I have not met any Gandalfs in my many years, but if he looks like me, I’m sure he’s a charming fellow that I’d like to meet.” Although Sam gauges the man to be at least as old as dirt, his eyes twinkle like a child’s beneath his half-moon glasses. Dean barks a laugh and Bobby shakes his head. Sam allows his wand to fall back to his side, but he still holds it tight in his grip.

“Really Sam. Put your damn wand away.” Bobby growls. 

“No, Robert, it’s my fault. I must have been faster than your raven that I sent with my letter.” Sam holds up the envelope in his hand as Axl croaks proudly. “Ah, that would be the one.”

“I figured I’d let Dean come in and wash up before getting you, Sam.” Bobby explains.

“Oh,” Sam says lamely, finally pocketing his wand. Sam grunts as Axl pushes off of his shoulder and flies over to Dean who now has a handful of treats and is feeding them to the bird generously. 

“I suppose introductions are called for. I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”

“Headmaster of Hogwarts?” Sam asks just as Dean requests if he can get the name written down.

“Yes, and yes, although I hardly think that the latter is necessary, as you can just call me Albus or Professor Dumbledore. And I presume that you are Dean?"

“The one and only,” Dean smirks.

“Thankfully,” Sam mutters, earning himself a glare.

“And you must be Samuel.” Dumbledore is smiling at their antics as he looks towards the taller Winchester. 

“Yeah, but I usually go by Sam.” Dumbledore nods in acknowledgement. “So, I’m sorry if this is rather blunt, but what are you doing here?”

“Did it get too rainy across the pond? Looking to dry off?” Dean asks, petting Axl absently on the head. 

“The weather has been rather dreary lately, but no. I am actually visiting here on other business. I was hoping that you both would be able to assist me.” 

“How?” Sam’s curiosity is piqued. The acclaimed greatest wizard of this age asking the Winchesters for help? ‘This ought to be good,’ he thinks, sitting down at the kitchen table. Bobby grabs another chair and sits down too. Dean remains leaning against the counter.

“Well, I’m not sure how much you keep up with news about Hogwarts, but we have found ourselves in a bit of a mess as far as staffing goes,” Dumbledore explains. “Our teaching position of Defence against the Dark Arts has been declared ‘cursed’ due to the high rate of staff turnover.” Sam wonders what he was getting at with this. “In fact, last year the professor in the position was actually possessed by a part of the dark wizard Voldemort’s soul. You may remember him from a decade or so back.”

Sam’s scrunches up his face in thought. “Yeah, it was something about a Harvey Turner being a hero or something? Defeating Voldemort even though he was just a kid?” He turns to Dean. “Dad had wanted to check it out, right Dean? It was only your fear of flying that-“

“Let’s cut to the chase here,” Dean interrupts, glaring at Sam for bringing up planes. “I don’t see what you want us to do about your school’s problem - it just sounds like bad luck to me. I’m not sure if there is a curse that we could break if we tried.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to break any curses,” Dumbledore says. “It is the stigma around the position that has led to me not being able to find anyone suitable and willing to take on the job. I came to Robert to see if he knew anyone who would wish to be a professor at Hogwarts this year. He suggested both of you.”

There is a pregnant pause as the Winchesters digest this information, and it is soon shattered to pieces with laughter.

“You want Sam-“

“You want Dean-“

“To teach?!” They finish at the same time and then keel over in laughter. Sam holds onto the table to try and stable himself and Dean clutches to the kitchen counter for support, Axl abandoning his shoulder in favour of flying outside the open window, squawking angrily. Dumbledore looks on slightly confused but still smiling politely while Bobby’s face flickers with a strange mixture of frustration and embarrassment. 

“Well, yes,” Dumbledore replies as both brothers try to stifle their laughter unsuccessfully. “Robert recommended you both highly for this position. As the previous headmaster of Ilvermorny, I trust his judgement in this matter.” 

Dean sobers up quickly. “You’re serious?”

“Yes. If Robert believes that you are qualified to teach the students at my school, I am sure that you will both do an excellent job.”

“Oh Bobby, you do care.” Sam says, giving false doe eyes to Bobby who just glares at him. 

“Just because you’re the best wizards I know doesn’t mean too damn much. I don’t exactly hang around the brightest crowd.”

Dean solemnly puts his hand over his heart. “Robert, we’re touched.” 

“My foot will be touching your ass none too gently real soon boy.” Bobby threatens pointing his finger at Dean who returns his anger with a grin. It’s Sam who brings the conversation back to the topic at hand.

“You do know that we’re wanted by America’s Magical Congress, right? Dean and I have a bit of a checkered past with the police and whenever we do unwarded magic, they come hunting us down to try arresting us.” That was the reason Dean chose to send them to Bobby’s. The wards that were in place obscured magic use and made it almost impossible for aurors to pinpoint their location. To them, the Winchesters had managed to escape right off the map. Again. 

“Besides the creatures that you hunt, have you ever harmed anyone intentionally?” Dumbledore asks raising one of his eyebrows.

Sam shrugs. “Not if they weren’t gunning for us first.” 

"Yeah," Dean says without much conviction. Sam looks up at him, Dean won't meet his eyes. Thankfully Dumbledore doesn't comment on it. Sam knows his brother, and he knows there was a lot that was unsaid in that one word.

Dumbledore places his elbows on the table and tents his fingers looking intently at both the Winchesters. “Then, I believe that Robert’s judgement of you two is valid, and I trust you two to teach the students of my school. And besides,” Dumbledore smiles, “as far as I am concerned, the Ministry of Magic is not invested enough in American affairs to raise any complaints at me finding teachers for my school from the States, and I am not inclined to inform them of said affairs.”

Sam feels excitement beginning to bubble inside of him despite his concerns about Dean. “We still have a magical signature that can be traced. We can’t use magic without the Congress tracking us down.”

Dumbledore’s eyes become mischievous. “I have a friend who should be able to help. I will arrange for you both to meet him.” A smile breaks over Sam’s face, eagerness coming to the surface.

“So,” Dean claps his hands together, “When do we start?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE SOONEST I HAVE EVER UPDATED ANYTHING EVER. Let's all just sit back and appreciate that for a moment....okay. We're good.
> 
> Friendly reminder that Ilvermorny is the American wizarding school as outlined on Pottermore.
> 
> Also, Axl the raven is named after Axl Rose from Guns n' Roses. Excuse me as I liberally use my knowledge of classic rock in this fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Any comment or suggestions are welcomed with open arms.


	3. Taking Care of Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"People see you having fun just a-lying in the sun,_   
>  _Tell them that you like it this way._   
>  _And we be taking care of business."_   
>  _\- Bachman-Turner Overdrive_

It had been a mistake to go to the bookstore. 

Sam never thought, even in his wildest imaginings, that he would feel this way. But in spite of the extensive prompting and bribing that he had put into getting Dean out of their room in the Leaky Cauldron, Sam could safely say that it was not worth it. Not to complete his research or finalize lesson plans. Not even to get some fresh air. Not on this day, when a surplus of young and old witches clutching various books by one Gilderoy Lockhart were filling every inch of floor space within Flourish and Blotts and tittering amongst themselves.

Really, Sam should have had everything together for teaching at Hogwarts by now. Dumbledore’s visit to Bobby’s had been weeks ago, and while they waited for the Headmaster to deliver a portkey (that’s legality is still up for question,) both Sam and Dean raided Bobby’s miniature library to draw up lesson plans.

Between the usual empty threats and huffs of annoyance, Sam could tell that Bobby was sad to see the Winchesters hit the road again. But after the older hunter promised to keep the Impala in good condition and the Winchesters promised to visit during the holidays and send a letter to Jo and Ellen soon, Sam and Dean took hold of the sticker of Scotland’s flag and they found themselves collapsed on a warm wooden floor. As Sam wrestled to keep his last three meals in check, they were greeted by a man who introduced himself as Tom, owner of the Leaky Cauldron Inn. 

And today, Sam wished he had sat down and enjoyed a third cup of coffee by the pub’s fireplace, or went out for ice cream at Fortescues. He could imagine a thousand places that we would rather have been instead of among countless twittering witches clutching Lockhart’s books. 

Wincing, Sam remembers his own attempt to read a volume by the renowned British wizard. As if the alliterated titles weren’t bad enough, Sam’s extensive knowledge of magical creatures found holes in the plot of almost every page. That is, when the subject wasn’t the author himself. Sam had promptly tossed the book into the fireplace at the Cauldron and taken a walk to clear his mind of the horrible excuse for literature.

Sam notes that the majority of British witches do not appear to share his sentiments because apparently they are all gathered see the man whose face Sam had happily watched burn among logs. 

“Hey Dean, maybe we should get the books this evening. The sign says that Lockhart will be done the book signing at 4:30 – we could come back then.” Dean’s face darkens as his brother speaks. 

“No freaking way. You dragged me out of bed to get books for your damn lesson plans, so you’re gonna march in there and get your damn books, or so help me, I will kick your ass.” Sam’s face falls and he slouches in defeat.

Definitely a mistake to go to the bookstore today.

Gently pushing other people aside, Sam leads the way into the shop. At first, Sam thinks that the books should be easy to find, but as he passes through the doorway, he quickly finds that he will need a small miracle to even reach the area he thinks they might be in. 

Witches are everywhere, standing in all spaces not taken up by books or shelves, trying to catch a glimpse of Lockhart who, Sam could see with his height advantage, had yet to show up. Sam throws a glance back at Dean, praying for him to turn tail and leave, but all he receives is a motion to continue on his mission to find books. 

Just like any losing fight, Sam decides that what he needs is a change in tactic. He scans the crowd and finds the closest sales associate who is looking like he is imagining all the places he would rather be instead of work.

“Hey man, do you think you could help me find something?” The wizard looks at Sam in the same way Sam imagines someone drowning would look at the person who tossed them a lifesaver. Sam isn’t sure whether the man is grateful to be given a job other than crowd patrol, or if he was struck with relief that he wasn’t the only male in the store. 

“Right this way sirs.” The trio weaves their way through the crowd, and very narrowly avoid falling on their way up a staircase as shrieking erupts among the gathered crowd. Reluctantly, Sam admits that the women were not as bad as Banshees that he’d previously faced, but it was a close comparison. Glancing over the railing, Sam sees a blond wizard in blue robes make an appearance, and the store is alight with camera flashes. Pushing on, the sales associate leads the Winchesters up the rest of the staircase and it isn’t long before Sam has all of the titles on his list in his hands. 

“Sorry for that taking so long,” the associate sighs. “Usually we are allowed to summon the books, but today?” He shakes his head. “Someone would probably get a book in the face because it’s so crowded, all because of that pompous toe-rag-“ he cuts himself off abruptly and puts his hands over his mouth, “er-because of Lockhart,” he finishes lamely. Sam laughs and places a hand on the other wizard’s shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, you’re in like company. Thanks for your help,” Sam turns to see Dean leaning over the balcony, looking at Lockhart with blatant distaste on his face.  
“This guy hunts monsters? He looks more suited to being in a hair product commercial.” Dean says, absently rubbing his arm where Sam knows is a particularly nasty scar, but he can’t remember what monster it was from. 

That was their life – fighting a different monster every other week, and there was no glory for them. No one wrote novels praising their work. They did their work to keep no-mag folks from having to be exposed to the dark creatures of the night, and the knowledge that they were saving lives was enough of a reward. Sam doesn’t verbalize these thoughts, but he nods at Dean to show that he does share the same sentiments. As the Winchesters make their way to the checkout, Lockhart is answering the crowd’s questions. Most are on his past escapades or future endeavours, but one question in particular catches their attention. 

“Mr. Lockhart, is it true that you had applied for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts?” Sam can see Lockhart smile once more with his perfectly straight teeth, but he notes that it looks more like a grimace. 

“It is true, I did. And I was almost guaranteed the position, but alas, Professor Dumbledore found someone else to fill it so that I could continue to travel, fight dangerous monsters, and continue to write books for my charming fans, so many of whom are here today.” The crowd erupts as Lockhart speaks.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m sure that’s how it went down. Man, I’m not surprised that we got the job if that kook was our only competition.”

-.-.-.-

The quiet babble of Diagon Alley is a blessed relief from the ruckus in the Flourish and Blotts. Sam takes a deep breath to release the tension in his shoulders. But when he feels a gentle hand on his arm, Sam tenses once more and his eyes shoot open. Needless to say, he is surprised to see a motherly women looking at him with wide, panicked eyes. “Excuse me, gentlemen, have you seen a young boy around? He has black hair, round glasses, and looks much too small for his clothes, the poor thing. I can’t find him anywhere!” The woman sounds hysterical. “Oh, I knew we shouldn’t have taken Floo Powder! He had never used it before and he could be in France for all I know!” 

Sam frowns. “Sorry, Ma’am, me and Dean just came out of the bookstore. We haven’t seen-”

“Is that him over there? Next to the…giant?” Dean points behind the woman who whips her head around and then begins running towards the odd pair. With mild amusement, Sam watches the woman race down the street, handbag swinging wildly beside her. Sam’s joy at their reunion is interrupted by Dean who has reached for the gun in his back pocket, but has yet to draw it. 

“What is a giant doing in Diagon Alley?” He hisses. “Don’t they usually stay in the mountains?” Sam appraises the bushy haired man across the alley who, even from this distance, he could tell dwarfed even his own height. 

“He can’t be a giant. Giants are much taller and angrier. Maybe he drank a potion as a kid accidentally? No one can be that tall through genetics alone.”

“I don’t know, you seem to prove that wrong,” Dean says. Sam glares at his brother, and watches as his green eyes widen. “Maybe he’s a half-giant.”

“It doesn’t really matter anyways, Dean. He seems like a nice guy. It looks like he’s more likely to sit on someone than grind their bones into bread.” Sam hopes that Dean can see what he notices – the giant’s eyes crinkled with permanent laugh marks, the full bodied laughter, and the ginger family surrounding him, completely relaxed in his presence. Whatever he is, Sam decides the man isn’t a threat. Dean eventually nods, and drops the subject. His hand leaves the gun tucked at his back, and enter his pocket, rummaging until he pulls out an opened envelope. 

“Well, since we’re out and about anyways, let’s go to Ollivanders. I got Dumbledore’s letter last night.”  


-.-.-.-  
It isn’t hard do find the shop as they make their way down Diagon Alley. The glass-fronted store proudly displays a sign in peeling gold letters proclaiming it to have been making wands since 382 B.C. Dean smiles as he imagines wizards in Togas pointing olive branches at each other. 

Dean enters the store first, and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the darkly lit interior. It’s an interesting darkness, because it isn’t the cold darkness of empty hotel rooms or abandoned buildings and basements, but a soft, warm dimness that calls for respect and projects the importance of the shop’s contents. And those contents are stacked onto shelves, thousands upon thousands of wands in boxes of various colours litter the shop. Dean’s eyes follow the shelves as far as he can crane his neck until he glances down and notices a child standing nervously with his parent in front of the desk. The man was clutching his child’s shoulder in a way that projected his own nervousness. 

The man glances at the jeans and plaid that the Winchesters are wearing and visibly relaxes. Dean approaches the pair slowly in what he hopes is a non-threatening manner and crouches beside the kid so that he can speak with him at eye level.

“Hey, kid. Are you here to get your first wand?” The boy nods hesitantly, and his father speaks quickly. 

“Yes, and he’s already tried half the wands in this shop, but the old man keeps saying that they aren’t right for him.”

The boy pipes up again, excited. “I made some wands fall off the shelves and I set Mr. Ollivander’s desk on fire. He had to put out, but he said it wasn’t my fault and just went to get more wands for me to try.” Dean glances at the desk and notes that it is a bit damp.

“And Ollivander’s right,” Dean nods. “Wands can be picky. You just need to wait for Ollivander to bring the right one.”

“But it’s just a stick, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we just choose one and be done with it?” The father asks, clearly exasperated and overwhelmed. Dean begins to suspect that the boy and his dad are no-mags who are in over their heads.

“Think of it this way. You can use cords to control the flow of electricity from outlets. Do you know the cord that you find attached to the appliances in your home?” Dean asks and the boy nods. “A toaster doesn’t use the same cord as a computer, even though they both plug into the wall. Are you with me so far?” The boy nods again, and Dean sees that the father is listening just as intently to his explanation. “Well, every wand is like the cord connecting a wizard to their magic – you just need the right cord to get yourself, the appliance, to your magic’s outlet.”

“I could not have explained it better myself.” All present flinch at the sudden appearance of an old man from somewhere among the many shelves. He brandishes a box and opens it for the boy. “Now Joshua, try this one, if you will.”

The boy, with his chin up and a determined look on his face, takes the wand from its velvet cushion and waves it. His laughter fills the air and Dean smiles. He gets the same feeling as when a particularly good song comes on the radio while he’s driving the Impala. A warm breeze accompanies the light glowing from the wand, and Dean closes his eyes at the peace that comes over him. 

“Thought so. 10 ¾ inches, ebony, with a unicorn hair centre. A truly excellent wand for transfiguration, now in the hands of a truly excellent owner. That will be six galleons – the gold ones, sir – and three sickles – those would be the silver.” Ollivander bustles towards the desk and takes the coins, placing them into a drawer out of sight. He offers the boy the box in which the wand was stored, which the boy takes eagerly and places in his cauldron next to the already large pile of new purchases from Diagon Alley. 

“Thank you Mr. Ollivander!” He says to the old wizard who smiles gently. “And thank you too, mister!” He says to Dean.

“Don’t mention it, kiddo,” Dean says, ruffling the boy’s hair. The father grasps Dean’s hand and gives it a firm shake, mouthing “thank you” before grabbing a bag of books and the cauldron and following his son out into Diagon Alley.

There’s a momentary silence before Ollivander’s soft voice breaks it. 

“And who might you two be?”

Sam clears his throat, after watching Dean’s interaction with the father and son pair in silence. “Sam and Dean Winchester. Albus Dumbledore-“

“Asked if I could toggle with how your wands project magic. Yes, yes. Although I am never too keen about tampering with wands that others have made, I will see what I can do. Could you please place your wands on my desk?” Dean reaches for his wand that is tucked next to his pistol and sets it next to Sam’s. Both were of substantial size, much longer than the one that the boy had just bought, and theirs were both well worn, having seen their share and more of dark creatures and fellow wizards alike.

“Ahhhh, these are the work of Celeste Boxham if I am not mistaken.” Dean nods as the old man continues, squinting down their length, humming and hawing to himself. “Feather of a Griffin has never been something I’ve tried, but the Blackthorn of your wand is a very interesting choice on her part.” He sets down Dean’s well-worn wand and picks up Sam’s. “And Cypress – Celeste must have imported some wood from the southern states – it’s the wand wood of heroes, you know,” Ollivander comments, looking at Sam over his glasses. “And a dragon heart-string core which is something I often use in my own wands.”

Dean tries to be patient at Ollivander examines both wands again. And again. And then he gives them both a wave and continues humming to himself. Dean finds himself tapping his toes and glancing around the shop for something to distract him from the man at the desk. He gives Sam a wide eyed look of frustration that his younger brother mirrors. At long last, Ollivander taps both wands with his own and mutters an incantation. 

“Yes, I believe that should do it.” Dean almost jumps at the chance to get his wand out of the hands of the strange man, and Sam does the same. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that what I have done is highly frowned upon by the Ministry of Magic, and the Magical Congress as they both like to keep tabs of everyone doing magic so. For that reason, I must ask that my role in charming your wands be forgotten.” 

“Of course. Thanks Mr. Ollivander.” Dean pulls out his wallet, prepared to pay the man with the British wizarding coins that he was becoming increasingly familiar with, but the old man shakes his head. 

“No need, Mr. Winchester, I am merely repaying a favour that I owed Albus. He supplied me with some phoenix feathers a few years ago, and while I'm not sure if any good became of it, I keep my promises,” Ollivander says mysteriously as he becomes lost in his thoughts. 

“Well, have a good one, Mr. Ollivander.” Dean says, making his way out of the shop with Sam trailing behind quickly, not wanting to be left behind with the strange old man. As they step once more into the sunlight, he can imagine a nice glass of firewiskey in his hand while he eats a burger and some 'chips' from the pub on the main floor of the Leaky Cauldron. But he catches sight of Sam’s face as they pass Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, and rolling his eyes, he turns around. 

“Come on, Sammy. Let’s get us some ice cream.” After all, they were getting a teacher’s pay soon, and Dumbledore said room and board were free once they got to Hogwarts. They could afford to be frivolous with their money for once in their lives. 'Besides,' Dean thinks as Sam smiles and licks at the cone in his hand, 'it’s worth it to make Sam happy.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of this chapter. I'm a bit iffy about posting it, but I want to move on with the story, so there's no sense getting stuck here. 
> 
> Do you guys like the present-tense story? Should I switch it all to past-tense? Let me know in the comments.


	4. Crazy Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"I've listened to preachers,_   
>  _I've listened to fools_   
>  _I've watched all the dropouts_   
>  _Who make their own rules._   
>  _I'm goin off the rails on a crazy train"_   
>  _\- Ozzy Osbourne_

Unlike the majority of British wizards, Sam and Dean have no problems blending in with no-mag crowds. Maybe it was an American warlock thing, and the magical community was more integrated with the non-magical one. Dean never felt that this was a bad thing until he and Sam found themselves standing at King’s Cross station trying to find a non-existent train. 

“Platform 9 and 3 freaking quarters. What the shit is with that?” Dean looks around the crowded platform for anyone who wearing robes.

“Same as the last five times you’ve asked, I. DON’T. KNOW.” Sam hisses back. “You’d think Dumbledore would be a bit clearer in his instructions.”

“Maybe he gets his rocks off watching people like us try and figure out his silly riddles.”

“Dean.” It’s all Sam needs to say to get across that he really doesn’t need that mental image of the famous wizard. The glare that Sam gives switches to one of surprise when he sees something over Dean’s shoulder. 

“Someone just disappeared through that pillar. That one just before platform 10.”

“Ghost?” Dean asks, reaching for his gun. 

“No, I think it’s the platform we’re looking for. Count the pillars.” 

Dean does and he curses when he realises it’s the third one between the platforms. “You know, apparating would have been a lot better than figuring out this British wizardry crap.”

“I’m not going to apologise. Apparition is the absolute worst form of transportation. If I ever figure out who invented it, I’ll raise their ghost and then fill them with rock-salt,” Sam vows and Dean believes him.  
Sam hesitates when they reach the pillar but Dean, tired of standing around, hoists his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder and steps around Sam into the wall. Sam follows him through soon enough behind to hear the low whistle that he makes. 

“She’s a beauty.” It takes Sam a moment to realise that Dean isn’t referring to one of the mothers on the platform, but the scarlet train on the tracks. “Definitely over a century old. That paint hasn’t aged a day, though. I wonder if the conductor would mind if I helped shovel some coal in. That would be awesome!” 

“Sorry Dean, The Hogwarts Express runs exclusively on magic. “ Dean looks aghast and Sam walks past him to board the train. Dean follows muttering curses about magic violating the beauty of mechanics. Dean and Sam struggle to make their way through the crowds of students on the train who stop and stare when they walk by. They head towards the back of the train where there might be a greater chance of finding an empty compartment.

“Here, Sam.” Dean walks into an empty compartment and chucks his suitcase onto the rack above his seat. Immediately, he takes off his plaid sweater and balls it up into a makeshift pillow. Sam refrains from commenting about how they literally just woke up, and he takes a book out of his suitcase before putting it in the above compartment. As he cracks open the novel, he props his feet onto Dean’s seat. His brother does nothing more than crack an eye open, showing his toleration of the foot in his space, and then close it again.

They stay this way until a light rapping is heard on the door. Sam notices that although his brother hasn’t gotten up or even opened his eyes, his breathing has changed slightly. The faker. Habit makes Sam ensure his wand is close at hand before sliding the door open. He’s surprised at how far he needs to look down to greet their guest who is a young, frizzy-haired girl. She seems surprised as well at Sam’s height, but she quickly recovers.

“Sorry sir, but I was wondering if you’d seen Harry Potter anywhere. I’m a friend of his, I think, but I haven’t seen him at all on the train yet.” She becomes more and more flustered as she speaks. “Never mind, it’s silly. He’s probably just found someone else to sit with. Sorry for bothering you.” Sam quickly draws up an image he’d seen in the Daily Prophet of Harry Potter and Gilderoy Lockhart at the book signing. 

“Wait! I haven’t seen Harry, but I’m sure he’s not avoiding you. It’s a large train, and he could literally be anywhere.” The girl’s mood seems to improve minimally, but he can tell that she still has her doubts. 

“Okay. Thanks, sir.” And she walks off, perhaps to check more compartments, or to find a seat of her own. Sam gently closes the door after her and sits back down. He barely cracks his book open again when there’s another knock on the door. Sam huffs. He glares at Dean, willing him to stop pretending to be asleep and answer the door. When Dean doesn’t so much as twitch, he gets up and opens the door. On the other side is an elderly woman smiling up at him.

“Oh, hello. You’re a bit old to be a student. Are you a new professor?”

“Yeah,” Sam returns her smile, “And this is by brother, Dean.” He steps aside so that she can see Dean who is now sitting up and pretending to read Sam’s book. He gives a little wave to the woman and Sam which Sam returns with a glare. “We’re teaching Defence against the Dark Arts this year.” 

The woman’s smile falters slightly. “Ah, I was wondering who Albus would get to fill the position. There’s been terrible luck these past few decades, what with no one lasting more than a year. What happened to Professor Quirrell last June…” she trails off. “But enough of this dreary talk. Could I interest you dears in anything off the trolley? Sam shakes his head just as Dean pushes him roughly aside.

“What do you got?”

Five minutes later, Sam finds himself surrounded by various British magical candies. He ignores them in favour of trying to work the knots out of his stomach as the train slowly brings them closer to Hogwarts. Sam is dragged from his thoughts though when a licorice wand hits his face. He directs a glare at his brother. 

“What, I’m trying to smack that frown off your face. Do I need to pull out the Bertie Botts for more ammo? Eat up!”

“Licorice is basically made of dirt, you know.” Sam says, tossing the candy wand back at his brother and he chooses a pentagonal box from one of the piles of candy.  


Dean picks up the licorice Sam had thrown and brings it close to his face. “Don’t let his vulgar words hurt you, my sweet,” he croons and then opens and devours the candy.  


Sam rolls his eyes and opens the box he’d picked up. Dean laughs when Sam lets out a surprised shout as the chocolate inside leaps from the box. The brothers spend the rest of the train ride with friendly banter, dares with Bertie Botts, and trading their new Chocolate Frog cards (Come on Sam, like I’d trade THE Merlin for the front-man of a crappy metal band). And if Sam and Dean were getting a little sentimental about how long it had been since their relationship was more than hunting down different monsters each week, it was between them and the Scottish countryside.  


-.-.-.-  


Dean cracks an eye open as the sound of Sam rifling through his suitcase wakes him from his candy-induced nap.

“Worried you didn’t pack enough underwear, Sammy?”

“We’re almost at Hogwarts,” Sam ignores his brother’s question. 

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up. “So?”

“So, we need to get into our robes.” Dean remembers the curt reply from the Deputy Headmistress when he sent a letter asking if it was mandatory for professors to wear robes. The reply was short and to the point, stating that he and Sam must 'adhere to the professional standards of Hogwarts during the school week.' Dean had been put out until he read between the lines and packed his plaid and jeans for the weekends. Sam had only rolled his eyes when Dean asked how likely it was that he could convince the staff to have casual Fridays. 

Thankfully, it wasn’t robes like Merlin’s blue with stars that they had to wear, and pointy hats were optional. The Winchesters called in a favour with a seamstress back State-side that they’d once saved from a particularly nasty ghoul. The witch had been only too eager to offer them a discounted fee for modelling her robes overseas, “And at Hogwarts, no less!” As a result, the Winchesters were outfitted with the typical darker hues worn by American warlocks. The style of the Winchesters' new robes were much better than the flowing robes of British magical folk (and more practical for fights). The robes were similar to suits, but the jackets and vests tended to have more metal decorations, and were reminiscent of Victoria Era clothing. 

Dean reaches for his own suitcase and pulls out a dark purple dress shirt, black pants, and a cape with a chained clasp. Sam had rolled his eyes when Dean donned it in the seamstress’s shop, spread his arms wide to flare the cape and said 'I’m Batman.'

Dean hears Sam cursing as he pulls out his own wrinkled robes.

“Try _Praefoveo._ ” Dean comments as he locks the door, thinking of their many unexpected visitors and not wanting anyone to walk in mistakenly. He then pulls out his own, crisply folded pants and switches them out with his jeans. He can feel Sam’s glare hitting the back of his head. 

“It’s por favor, Dean, and I don’t think that asking my pants to nicely unwrinkle themselves will work, let alone if I do it in Spanish.”

“It’s a spell you goof,” Dean pushes Sam aside. “Put your pants over the seat like this,” shows him and pulls out his wand, “say _Praefoveo_ , and run your wand over your pants like you would with an iron.” Dean shows Sam, and then lets him try it himself. Sam, for all his talent in learning combat and academic magic never had the chance to learn domestic magic because Dean had taken on most of those tasks at a young age, and they didn’t bother to teach Home Ec. at Ilvermorny.

“Thanks Dean.” Dean grunts his acknowledgement of the thanks, but he’s become distracted by trying to close all the buttons on his shirt. They’d looked good when he had bought it, but he was beginning to doubt his judgement. After many arduous minutes and despite the number of buttons rivalling that of civil war uniforms, he could safely say that it was worth it as he strapped on the cape and looked at himself in the reflection on the window. 

“Lookin’ hella fine,” Dean mutters to himself. 

“What?”

“What?” Dean is saved from having to explain himself to Sam as the Hogwarts Express finally pulls to a stop, almost throwing the brothers off of their feet. Sam’s fully dressed now in a dark red shirt, a black buttoned vest with gold embroidery, and sharp pants courtesy of Dean. By an unspoken agreement, they both wait until the commotion in the corridor has died down before exiting their compartment, lugging their duffel bags on their shoulders. 

Dean barely steps off the train when a high-pitched voice calls their names. 

“Yeah?” Dean searches the crowd of students for the owner of the voice. 

“Down here.” Dean looks down to see a small man composed of more beard than anything else. “Hello, and welcome to Hogwarts! My name is Fillius Flitwick, Professor of Charms, and head of the Ravenclaw house. Pleased to meet you,” Flitwick extends his hand and Dean bends at the waist to shake back. Sam follows suit. “I trust the train ride was good?”  


“Yeah, it was pretty neat,” Sam walks slowly beside the man who is leading them away from the train to the horse-drawn carriages. “We don’t have many trains in America, and Dean and I have never had any reason to ride them.”

“Yeah, we’ve got the Impala to take us where we need to go. The Impala is our car,” Dean clarifies for Flitwick, but using such a basic word to refer to his Baby feels like sawdust on his tongue. 

“Well, I don’t think cars would even work around Hogwarts what with all the magic in the air,” Flitwick comments, “Which is why we have carriages pulled by-“

“Thestrals.” They’re close enough that the Winchesters can clearly see the skeletal horses strapped to carriages. 

“Yes. How did you know? Most people can’t see-” Flitwick cuts himself off. “Wait, there my mouth is, getting ahead of my brain. I am sorry.” The little man hops into the carriage, and Dean follows Sam up. He’s barely sat down next to Sam when the carriage lurches and they’re on their way up the cobbled path. 

Flitwick keeps friendly chatter which Sam and Dean trade off on answering, but both men lose their trains of thought when Hogwarts finally comes into view from behind the trees.  


“Oh wow,” Sam says, and Dean can feel his jaw slacken.

Hogwarts is an honest to God castle. It has limestone walls, likely reinforced with countless charms and magical barriers, turrets shoot up from the castle at random, and numerous windows are lit up with the flickering light of torches. Dean can almost imagine peasants and knights like he’s seen at Renaissance fairs traipsing the grounds, but he only sees students in their black robes entering Hogwarts through the massive wooden doors. 

Dean whistles. “Damn private schools; they get all the funding.” Sam snorts and Flitwick smiles politely, but Dean doesn’t think that he gets the joke. Dean hops out as soon as the carriage comes to a stop and gives the thestral’s scaled flank an affectionate pat. It whinnies and turns to nuzzle his shoulder. Dean notices that the beast’s scaly nose is surprisingly cool on the mild Scottish night 

“Just leave your bags in the carriage. They will be taken to your rooms during the feast.” Dean hesitates but Sam shrugs his bag off his shoulder quickly, and he thinks that it would be weirder to protest. Besides, Dumbledore knew their trade when he hired them – weapons in their bags were a given. “We’ll be going directly to the Great Hall.” Flitwick says and he leads them through the doors. “Minerva McGonagall intended to greet you before leading the first years in, but she is quite busy attending to a certain matter at the moment.”

“Matter?” Sam asks. Dean strains to listen as he takes in the sight of the countless moving portraits and stairs.

“Yes, it seems that two of her students, she’s the head of Gryffindor house, decided to take a flying car to school instead of the train.” Dean looks at him, aghast, but his rant on tampering with vehicular perfection with magic is cut short upon entering the Great Hall.

Dean thinks he knows how it got its name. The ceiling is charmed to look like the night sky, and hundreds of candles float freely as if in water. Four long benches fill the room, but Flitwick leads them to the table at the front of the room. The man sits down at a chair already prepared for him with a few textbooks to sit on. Dean and Sam have a silent argument using eyebrows, glares and glances before Sam sits beside Flitwick and Dean beside his brother. Sam would probably tolerate the chatty professor better than Dean ever would. 

It isn’t long before students stop entering the hall and a serious looking woman enters through a doorway to the right of the high table. Everyone in the hall quiets down as the woman, who Dean guesses is McGonagall, puts a stool in the middle of the hall and places a ragged pointy hat on top of it. 

The hall is virtually silent and everyone is staring at the hat with so much intensity that Dean thinks it might burst into flames. Instead he, along with his brother and the first years jump and flinch as the hat begins to sing in a lively baritone.

“I may be an old battered cap  
I’m patched with fraying thread  
But ever since the Founders passed,  
I’ve still gone on a head!  


Once the final stone was placed  
On Hogwarts’ noble walls,  
Students were welcomed with open arms  
Within these hallowed halls.  


Each founder had specific traits  
that they each deemed of use  
And thus, my students, I was made  
To choose which house you’ll suit.  


If driving deeds and bravery  
Are things that best define you,  
The lion’s roar of Gryffindor  
Will let your heart ring true.  


But if your valued traits are placed  
In cunningness and guile,  
Then the serpent’s den of Slytherin  
Might end up more your style.  


Perhaps knowledge is what you crave  
And the quest for wisdom’s light.  
Then the rookery of Ravenclaw  
Will soar you to greater heights.  


And if you’ve waited patiently  
To find a house to call a home,  
Hard work’s enough for Hufflepuff  
It’s here you’ll find you’re not alone.  


So buckle your belts and put on a grin  
Let’s let the sorting at Hogwarts begin!”

Dean can safely say that it’s the best song he’s ever heard a hat sing. 

He claps politely along with the others in the hall. McGonagall steps forward with a piece of parchment in her hand and tells the students to try on the hat when their name is called. Each child is on the stool for varying lengths of time before running off to the table of their new house. 

Dean leans towards Sam and whispers in his ear, “This brings you back to the good old days, eh, Horny Serpent?”

“Sure does, Wampussy.” The brothers try to keep their snickering quiet as they relive the nicknames of their youth. It was inevitable, really, to have teenagers of the recent century morph the once renowned names of magical creatures into things like “Thunder Thighs” and Puke-Wedgie.” 

Dean almost zones out when Sam nudges him and points to the shrinking group of first years. A smile breaks out over his face as he sees Joshua from Ollivander’s smiling and waving. He appears to be telling his new friends about getting his first wand and meeting the Americans who appear to be teachers. Dean watches as the kid gets sorted into Hufflepuff and claps along with the students in yellow and black. 

Once the last student is sorted, Dumbledore rises from his chair, just as McGonagall dashes out of the hall.

“Welcome and welcome back to each and every one of you. I ask that would lend me your ears,” Dean watches as students throughout the hall brace themselves for a speech, “after you have filled your stomachs. Tuck in!” The tables throughout the hall are suddenly filled with plates of food.

“I freaking love magic.” Dean says, eyeing up which dish he’ll dig into first. 

“I wonder where Dumbledore and McGonagall ran off to.” Sam is eyeing the doorway that both teachers disappeared through.

“Probably to deal with that punk kid who was driving a defaced car,” Dean says filling his plate with everything. 

“Dean, the kid’s probably twelve. He’s hardly punk.”

“You’re never too young for punk, Sam. And in case you didn’t notice, there’s a buffet in front of you. Dig in before it disappears again." 

It turns out that Dean’s worry about the food vanishing was unfounded, because the plates didn’t disappear until long after Dumbledore and McGonagall returned, and he’d had more than his fill of potatoes, pudding, and everything he’d laid eyes on. He was making friendly conversation with the bubbly Professor Sprout when the tables were finally cleared and Dumbledore made his way to the podium.

“Good evening, once again, new and returning students. I have a few announcements that you will hopefully digest better along with your food. Firstly as always, the forest is off limits to students. This is for your own safety. Failure to adhere will mean either detention, loss of house points, a visit to the hospital wing, or all three.” Dumbledore waits for his words to sink in.

“On a lighter note, some of you may have noticed the new faces in our staffing this year. Professors Dean and Sam Winchester will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts this year. Unlike many classes at Hogwarts, they will be splitting the job. Professor Dean will be teaching fourth years and under while Professor Sam is instructing the upper years. I know that you will show them proper respect, and a hearty Hogwarts welcome.” The hall’s occupants applaud politely, but Dean notices ruefully that the hat got more enthusiasm than them. 

Dumbledore’s announcements continue, but it isn’t long before everyone is dismissed. There’s a clatter of benches as everyone rises, and Dean gets up, stretching to work out the usual kinks caused by sitting for almost the whole day. Professor McGonagall approaches them, and Dean automatically straightens in the woman’s formidable presence. 

“Professors Winchester. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I see that you took my letter to heart,” she says, eyeing the Winchesters’ robes. Although her face remains serious, Dean notices her eyebrow is quirked in good humour.

“Of course, ma’am. I just hope you don’t mind our Yankee fashion sense.” Dean’s proud to notice how her lips quirk upwards. “I’m wondering, though. Has word of the no-mag tradition, 'Casual Friday,' ever made it across the ocean?”  


-.-.-.-  


It’s late when McGonagall’s done showing the Winchesters where the location for their classroom will be. Dean almost squealed in (manly) excitement when he saw the skeleton of a dragon hanging from the ceiling. She also handed them both a schedule complete with both their class and meal times before taking them to their rooms on the second floor.  


Dean says goodnight to Sam before entering his own room. He’s surprised to note that the dampness of the castle isn’t present in the small room which has a fire burning strongly in the hearth. 

Just as Flitwick had promised, his bag is on his bed. He digs out an old AC DC shirt and switches it out for his current shirt-of-a-thousand-buttons. As an afterthought, he hangs the whole outfit in the large wardrobe, and waves his wand to hang the rest of his formal wear alongside the first before collapsing into *his* bed, relishing in the fact that he has his own space for the first time in years. Everything else in his bag could wait until the morning to be unpacked he decides as he moves his bag from the bed to the floor. Dean rolls over with a groan, and moves his gun and wand under his pillow.

He doesn’t think that he’ll sleep very well in the unfamiliar space, but he is pleasantly proved wrong by his full stomach and the warm fire burning across the room from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait has been long, but hopefully this chapter isn't as bad as I think it is. The boys are finally at Hogwarts! Thank you to all the sweet reviewers, and those who have bookmarked this story. It's you guys who keep me writing :) 
> 
> And yeah, I wrote my own hat song. My years of angsty poetry has resulted in this.
> 
> Remember: You're never too young (or old) for punk.


	5. Teacher Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Just when I thought I finally learned my lesson well,_   
>  _There was more to this than meets the eye_   
>  _And for all the things you taught me, only time will tell,_   
>  _If I'll be able to survive."_   
>  _\- 38 Special_

Dean was half asleep when he had made the trip from his bedroom to the Great Hall with Sam. He remained half asleep even as he nursed a cup of coffee and watched the owls fly over everyone’s heads, dropping letters and packages to the students and some staff. But his early morning stupor abruptly ends as someone’s letter begins screaming.

Cutlery and plates rattle as the sheer volume and ferocity of the woman’s voice shakes dust from the rafters. But the brunt of the stationary’s rage is directed at only one young student. Dean absently places a hand over his mug to stop the century old dust from filling his drink, watching the kid’s face turn a deeper shade of red than even the Howler screaming at him. 

“…AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE, WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.” Abruptly the card bursts into flame, silencing itself. Everyone in the hall breathes a sigh of relief, laughs and they break off into their own conversations once more. 

Dean removes his hand from above his mug and takes a sip of his mostly dust-free coffee. He glares over the rim of his cup at the ginger student who is now looking like he’s trying to sink through the bench and into the floor. “So that’s the hell-spawn that drove a violated car.”

“Let it drop, Dean,” Sam huffs. “The letter said it was his Dad’s car, so it’s not like he’s personally responsible for the car being tampered with. Besides, not everyone has a ridiculous-“ Dean’s glare turns to Sam, “-ly reasonable appreciation of cars like you do.” Sam shovels some eggs into his mouth and smiles sheepishly at Dean with his cheeks full.

Dean lets the conversation drop. He begins to dig into his breakfast, but he feels unreasonably tense, like something is out of place. He sorts through his own mind and can’t place it until he looks at Sam and realizes that it’s his brother radiating discomfort. Sam’s shoulders are tenser than normal, and his fork is nearly trembling from the force that he is holding it with.  
“You’re nervous!” Dean suddenly accuses, points a sausage speared on a fork at his brother.

“No I’m not!” Sam’s voice is high-pitched which would have given him away even Dean couldn’t read him like a book. 

“You totally are!” Dean put his fork down with a clank. “Listen. Sam. You’ve spent the whole summer planning curriculum, and you practically read through Bobby’s entire library even though you know it all already! You’ll do fine.”

Sam gives Dean a small smile and loosens the death grip on his cutlery. After all, his brother is right. The first day would be introducing themselves to each class; nothing could go wrong. 

Sam thinks back on these words as he tries to get the attention of a room full of teenagers entering their last year at Hogwarts. The students are ignoring him in favour of catching up from the holidays, with the added excitement of almost being done school. 

“Welcome back to Hogwarts. I’m…I said, welcome back – oh come on!” Sam pleads. He doesn’t want to threaten the kids or lose his cool by shouting at them – that would only cause problems later in the year because he wouldn’t have their respect. Glancing at Dean, Sam sees his brother raising an eyebrow, silently asking to step in. Sam nods, plugging his ears and smiling vindictively as Dean raises his fingers to his lips. The students scramble to cover their ears and their conversation stops in the wake of the piercing whistle Dean emits. In the silence, Dean nods smugly at Sam, and with a sweeping gesture, motions for Sam to begin again. 

“As I was trying to say, welcome back to Hogwarts. I’m Professor Sam Winchester.”

“And I’m Professor Dean.”

“Yes, we are from America, and yes, we are qualified to be here teaching you. As you should all know, your N.E.W.T.S. will be taking place this year, so even if you’ve gotten by alright by not studying or practising outside of class up until this point, I highly recommend starting to. Like in fifth year, there will be meetings with your heads of houses to plan your careers and apprenticeships, but if you have any specific questions, I’ve been told that you’re encouraged to go to any of your profs in their office hours. Yes?” Sam gestures to a student’s raised hand.

“Pardon my asking, professor,” he doesn’t look remorseful, “but aren’t there higher standards for British schools like Hogwarts, than American ones? I just wouldn’t want to, say, have a Beauxbatons student get a leg up in the job market because of something not covered in class.” Sam pastes on a grin as some of the other students nod slightly.  
“I appreciate your concern Mr.?”

“Flint.”

“Mr. Flint.” Sam echoes, and puts on what Dean would call his ‘lawyer face’. “My brother and I have thoroughly read the requirements of the Hogwarts curriculum, which is not all that different from that of Ilvermorny if you must know, and we have planned our curriculum accordingly. You can be sure that if you are finding yourself lacking of any information going into your N.E.W.T.S., I will not be the one accountable.” Some snickers erupted in the room at his implication. 

“That being said, I will not shy away from drawing comparisons between magical creatures and curses that you come across here in Europe to those found in America as it is useful information. However, these will be more like footnotes in the curriculum, and will be only a small portion of your overall grade in this class.” Sam sees Flint’s mouth open as if to ask something else, but he cuts the student off.

“If, however, you were referring to my qualifications as a professor at Hogwarts, I would be forced to inform you that I graduated Ilvermorny with top marks, and numerous job offers. This included international opportunities, such as at your Ministry for Magic. I believe this would be enough to alleviate you of any worry about American education being inferior to British schools, private or otherwise.” Flint’s face is noticeably pale, and Sam thinks that he hit the nail right on the head. “But of course, you wouldn’t think to question my qualifications out loud because that is disrespectful, and I may have to take house points away or give you a detention for disrespecting a professor.”

Sam surveys the class noticing a few smiling faces, and some students are viewing him with a bit more respect that when they first entered the room. Satisfied, Sam waves his wand and the course outline appears on the chalkboard from under the glamour he’d placed there earlier that morning when he’d written it out. 

“Now, this is generally what the class will look like over the next year. We’re going to start out learning about…”  


-.-.-.-  


“Good morning, and welcome back to Hogwarts! I’m Professor Dean, and this is Professor Sam. I will be your teacher for the year, but we wanted you to get used to seeing us together from the get-go. There will be many classes, at least in my lesson plan, that require assistance for demonstrations. You are also welcome to come to either of us for help in this course as we are both familiar with the material covered.” Still, the kids look like he is reading to them the terms and conditions for the course. 

Looking at the second years, Dean comes to realize that they aren’t expecting much from this class. It might as well be math for all the excitement they are showing.  


Well, Dean is going to prove them wrong.

“It is my understanding that you all have largely been taught out of books in this class. Well, I don’t like books.” This draws some snorts and laughter from the class as Dean smiles openly. “That’s not to say that they aren’t incredibly useful for referencing and researching. I don’t like books because I learn through experience. With this in mind, I’ve built this course so that what you do in class through participation in discussions and demonstrations will make up the largest portion of your grade. There will be the occasional paper,” some groans break out, “come on, guys - it’s school. Of course there will be some written work. But these papers will be more for me to check where you all are at in your understanding of the material so that I can review some concepts that weren’t covered clearly enough. 

“Honestly, I don’t care what your marks are in this class,” Dean shrugs and begins pacing at the front of the room. “You can end up with Dreadfuls for all I care, but I want you guys to know that what we’re covering in class is important. I know that all teachers say that, but there’s a lot of crap outside of this school, and I want to make sure you guys are prepared to face it so that you don’t get hurt.

“That’s not to say we won’t have fun, but just remember that it’s probably in your best interest to show up to class and get what you can out of it.” Dean pauses for a breath, not used to doing long-winded speeches. “Any questions? No? Good. Because we’re going have our first practical lesson."

Without warning, Dean draws his wand and whips a spell at Sam who’s sitting on the desk about five meters from him. Sam casts a _Protego,_ causing Dean’s spell to ricochet. Dean ducks, allowing the spell to whizz past him and into the wall, leaving a small scorch mark. 

“What the fu-rick was that for!” Sam yells moving out of the defensive stance he’d taken and lowering the wand now in his hand. He looks like he is about to tackle his brother. 

“Alright,” Dean turns to the class, “who was expecting that?” The students, startled at the display, could only shake their heads. 

“Well, Sam didn’t expect it either, and yet he reacted not only to the immediate situation which was protecting himself from my offensive spell, but he was also prepared to protect himself from any other spells, or fire his own curses by taking on a duelling stance. Nice job, by the way, Sam.” Sam glares and settles back onto the desk, noticeably less relaxed than he was before. 

“While we’re at it, can anyone tell me why his stance was so effective?” A few hands shoot up. “You in the yellow tie.” 

The boy looks startled at being chosen, but he clears his throat. “Professor Winchester’s stance made him the smallest possible target for you to aim spells at. His feet were spread apart to that it was less likely for him to be knocked off balance, and his wand was at the ready.”

“Correct on all accounts. Professors usually give points for this stuff, right? Well, five points to Heffalump.”

“It’s Hufflepuff.” Sam smirks as some students laugh. 

“Five points to Hufflepuff.” Dean amends, smiling, and notices a girl’s hand is still raised. He notes that she is the girl who had knocked on their train compartment. “Yes?”

“Professor Sam was also able to cast the _Protego_ spell without his wand being drawn. It gave him time to grab his wand and prepare a counter attack.” Dean makes an impressed face, and some of the students’ eyes widen in shock.

“Five points to the Griffin house – I wasn’t sure if anyone would pick up on that.

“Yes, Sam cast the initial spell without his wand, but this is a skill that only a few warlocks and witches develop. And even then, wandless magic tends to be volatile which makes it unreliable in a duel. That’s why Sam drew his wand to prepare for further attacks. 

“And I have an ongoing assignment for all of you. As of today, I want all of you to carry your wands in an accessible way. You can order a wand holster, make your own, or even just keep in in your pockets. But I want all of you to keep it close at hand while you are between classes, in them, or even just hanging around the castle on weekends. It sounds like a lot of work, but it’s a key habit to get into. Take Sam for example. If he had his wand in his bag, or even in his back pocket, he wouldn’t have had time to fire a counter spell. Carrying your wand accessibly is a habit that will pay off. Trust me.

"Any questions? No? Then class dismissed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Plot Plot Plot
> 
> Thank you all so much for the amazing reviews! If I could give every single one of you a hug, I would!
> 
> I'm sorry for the pretty dry chapter. Hopefully things will pick up from here, but I can't guarantee any update times due to school kicking me in the butt right now


	6. Good Times, Bad Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"In the days of my youth I was told what it was to be a man_   
>  _Now I've reached the age I've tried to do all those things the best I can_   
>  _No matter how I try I find my way to do the same old jam._   
>  _Good time, bad times, you know I've had my share"_   
>  _\- Led Zeppelin_

Sam settles into his desk chair. The furniture creaks, but it’s more of a well-worn sound rather than the cheaply built stuff he’s used to. With a loud exhale, he feels the tension of the day leave him slowly.

Everything had gone better than he had expected it would. But then again, he had anticipated realizing too late that teaching was not his calling in life, making a fool of himself in the process. Instead, he found that the students were great – as soon as they recognized that he was qualified, even without a formal degree.

But he had tried to get a degree. He had planned to work for a wizarding law firm somewhere in America, settle down with Jess, and then live happily ever after. But life never works that way.

Sam could still remember the look of betrayal in Jess’s eyes when he tried to tell her about magic. When he showed her a few simple spells. When she grabbed her jacket and left the apartment telling him to stay away from her. 

When he grabbed her shoulder to turn her around before casting a Memory Charm.

Jess had never remembered their conversation about magic, but Sam couldn’t forget it. Jess accused him of being distant and never letting her get close to him. But Sam knew what would happen if he did, and he knew Jess wouldn’t be happy either way. 

It was almost a relief when Dean had showed up, and they started searching for their Dad. It was not a relief to come back to a burning apartment, and only bitter-sweet thoughts of Jess to remember her by.

Shaking his head violently to push the bad memories from his mind. There was nothing he could do about it, so there was no sense dwelling on the painful thoughts. Sam looks over at his new four poster bed and debates whether it is too early to turn in. Most days ended for him long after the clock rolled over into the next day, but he reasons, it was a long day and he could easily change this bad habit.

Before he can get up and begin getting ready for bed, the door to his room swings open and slams into the wall with a tremendous sound. Sam would argue later that while he may have been startled into shouting, it wasn’t a girlish shriek that came from his mouth when Dean walked into the room and barked his name. 

“WHY.” Sam yells, eyes wide in exasperation. Dean ignores him and sits on the foot of Sam’s bed.

“Someone’s been in my room,” Dean says bluntly.

Sam rubs his forehead in frustration and tries to collect himself. “What makes you think that?”

“My clothes have been washed - the ones I wore at the feast yesterday and some other shirts that I had put into my closet - and my bed was made. I never make my bed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam mutters to himself.

Dean glares at him and gestures to his closet. “Your stuff’s been gone through too. I know for a fact you can’t fold that well.” Sam glances at his wardrobe.

“So it has. I really don’t think it’s anything to worry about, though. Nothing else was touched, right?” Sam can’t see why Dean is so worked up about it.

“I put up wards on my door. No one should have been able to come in!”

“Dean, whoever it was did your laundry. You hate doing that. You should be leaving them cookies or something, not complaining to me!”

Dean remains adamant. “What if they found our weapons? They’d probably run straight to Dumbledore and report us!”

“Professor Dumbledore knows that we’re hunters. He knows for a fact that we carry around several things to defend ourselves.” Dean opens his mouth, but Sam interrupts. “Besides, everyone here carries wands. Those are ten times more dangerous than a butterfly knife if someone knows the spells.”

Dean visibly deflates. “I just don’t like the idea of someone going through my stuff.”

“Maybe we can talk to Dumbledore about it. Tomorrow.” 

“Fine.” Dean gets up and leaves the room.

“I don’t know what you’re worried about!” Sam shouts after him “It’s not like chupacabras offer room service!”

“GOODNIGHT SAM.” Dean waves his wand and the door slams shut behind him.

Chuckling to himself, Sam walks over to his bed, stretching with a loud groan. He closes his eyes and mutters spells to construct wards around his room, just like Dean had. Paranoid though his brother might be, it couldn’t hurt to be prepared. 

A flick of his wand extinguishes the lamp by his desk, and Sam is left in a room illuminated by the flickering fireplace. But it reminds him too much of the night he lost Jess, and he extinguishes it as well.

Pushing the thoughts from his head, Sam crawls into bed and drifts off.  


-.-.-.-  


_Sam dreams of a boy in his mid-teens, writing in a journal of sorts. His mind can only register a few words in the still wet ink._

_Chamber._

_Heir._

_The scene changes and he’s in a hospital room with several people lying in cots. At least he thinks they’re people. They aren’t moving at all, despite some of their awkward positions._

_His mind feels like it’s yanked in another direction, and the scene changes to one of the hallways which must be in Hogwarts. A large crowd of people are surrounding writing on the wall. Sam had seen enough abandoned buildings marked by strange cultists to know that it was written in blood, but he can’t make out any words._

Gasping for breath, Sam jolts awake, and glances around for Dean, almost panicked when he notices his strange surroundings.

 _Right. Hogwarts._ He thinks, letting his head fall back onto his pillow, vainly wishing that sleep would come again. It doesn’t. 

A glance at his watch shows the time to be 4 am. He got more sleep then he thought he would, at any rate. Sam gets out of bed and puts on sweatpants and a t-shirt. 

Hogwarts was a big castle, and a few laps around the building should work off the tension from his dreams. Well, not dreams, but it made him feel better to call them that. Dean would probably freak out if he knew Sam had a vision and didn’t tell him right away, yet Sam can’t find it in him to care. He steps out into the misty morning, stretching briefly, before setting off on a slow jog around Hogwarts until the sun has fully risen, and his dreams and memories are far behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, long time no see! A huge thank you to everyone who is still following this, and to everyone who has just found this story, welcome aboard!
> 
> This is a shorter chapter than usual, but that just means that the next one will be out, probably before the end of December. I just need to finish my exams first.
> 
> If you have exams coming up, good luck. And remember, always keep fighting!


	7. Spirits in the Material World

The morning sun pours into the Great Hall as Dean eats his breakfast. Parchment is laid out beside his plate as he writes quick letters to Bobby and Ellen. Bobby’s ends up being pretty straightforward; it’s just an update with how he was finding Hogwarts and that his classes were going fine. Ellen’s was more difficult as he tried to sound dutifully apologetic to the letter. He clicks his pen thoughtfully. He had already used 'sorry.' Maybe he should try 'remorseful?' No, she would smell the ass-kissing from a mile away. Dean decides to just stick with 'sorry.' 

It is with relief that Dean finally signs his name at the end of the letter. As an afterthought, he writes 'and Sam,' in brackets. 'He didn’t suffer to write the letter, so he doesn’t deserve to sign it,' Dean thinks bitterly. 

Remembering Sam, Dean glances up, looking for his brother, or Dumbledore for that matter. Neither of them are in the hall, but Dean supposes that they might have already eaten. A glance at his watch tells Dean that he can’t wait any longer for them to show up. Tucking the finished letters into his coat pocket he makes his way to his classroom. Chances are, Sam will show up before the class actually starts. 

Dean comes to a realisation as he walks down the corridor which makes him stop humming a Hendrix song.

He’s actually looking forward to meeting his third year class. 

Admittedly, he had been sceptical about trying to teach school age kids how to do a hunter’s job. But by focusing his classes on defensive magic and making the kids aware of what is out there, he thinks that maybe he can actually make a difference for them. And that brings him a warm feeling.

A startled squeak at the end of the hallway causes Dean to look up sharply, just in time to see something translucent slip down the hallway to the left. Dean curses under his breath and grabs his wand. Obviously there was a chance of ghosts in a building as old as Hogwarts. Dean quietly makes his way to the end of the hallway and leans his back against the wall, using a pocket mirror to view around the corner without giving his position away. No sense firing spells blindly, especially in a building full of students.  
Dean’s brow creases when he sees to semi-corporeal figures in the mirror. They are standing in the middle of the hallway, arguing with each other, but the students pay the ghosts no mind. Dean has never seen spirits do more than shriek and throw things, so he pauses to listen in. 

“-eeves, you can’t go that way! It is dangerous!” The one that looks like a monk is pleading to a figure with wild hair in a jester outfit. 

“Is the Friar a liar, or just teasing Peevesy? Do you not know that Peeves don’t tease easy?”

“Listen to me Peeves, for once in your afterlife! We need to stay away from those Winchesters. That’s why Albus wouldn’t let us go to the welcoming feast this year.” 

Dean doesn’t know why Dumbledore would protect these ghosts, but he’s going to get some answers. He steps around the corner and the ghosts pause almost comically to look at him and his wand which is levelled at them. 

“Ooo, the Yankee looks angry! What’s knotted in his panties?” The jester cackles as the monk looks mortified. 

“I am terribly sorry, Mr. Winchester! We were just leaving. Don’t mind Peeves. It’s not you, it is just who he is as a spirit. 

“That’s terribly rude, Friar.” Peeves says blowing a raspberry at the other ghost. Dean clears his throat, getting the attention of the two spirits. 

“Why is Dumbledore trying to protect you guys?” Dean asks it in a way that shows he expects an answer, and he expects it fast. 

“Well, b-b-because he, well,”

“He knew you’d try to do us in, of course!” Peeves cackles. In the blink of an eye, he flies right into Dean’s personal space. Instinctively, Dean pops the lid off of the salt shaker in his pocket and tosses the contents at the ghost. With a shriek of surprise, Peeves disappears. 

Dean notices that some students have stopped to watch the confrontation with some interest, and some had gasped when the spirit vanished. 

The Friar’s face has become a strange mix of anger and fright, but he holds his ground as Dean’s wand is focused on him once more. 

“The ghosts that reside in Hogwarts are not dangerous! Please put your wand away.”

Dean almost laughs. “I think I’ve seen enough ghosts to be the judge of that. Though I gotta say, having a conversation with one is new.” Dean prepares to cast a spell which will hopefully restrain the ghost.

“LET. ME. SPEAK.” The Friar lets out a wave of energy causing Dean to fly into the wall, and his wand to fly across the hall. It says something about Dean’s life that despite his eyes going slightly fuzzy, the attack hardly fazes him.

“You really aren’t winning yourself any brownie points here.” Dean growls as he staggers to his feet. His fingers twitching to grab the gun that is tucked into his belt. 'Only as a last resort,' he tells himself as he eyes the shocked students who could easily be caught in the crossfire. 

“I’m not trying to win any ‘brownie points’ as you call them,” the ghost bites out. “I think I know what ghosts you are used to encountering in America, but Hogwarts is different. There is more ambient magic in Europe which allows ghosts to maintain more of their sanity. Hogwarts has an especially high concentration of magic and as such, ghosts tend to flock here for refuge in the afterlife. We are not harmful.”

“You just threw me into a wall.” Dean deadpans.

“You were going to attack me first, and I believe I am within my rights to protect myself.” The ghost sniffs indignantly. “Regardless, a hunter such as yourself must noticed that your American spirits are much more violent and mindless.” Dean mulls over this information. The differences between his ghosts and this one is pretty obvious now that he thinks about it. He had never thought that a ghost would be able to interact with the present in a way that didn’t involve violence, but there was a first for everything. Dean reluctantly lowers his wand.

The Friar’s eyes suddenly widen, staring at something over Dean’s shoulder. Before Dean can react, something hits the back of his head and drenches him in water. Whipping around, Dean sees Peeves grinning at him, his torso sticking out from the wall. He has several water balloons in his arms. Another balloon is lobbed at his face, but Dean drops to the floor, and the balloon sails over his head. Dean makes a run for his wand which was farther down the hall. Dean dives for it, and rolls over just in time to throw the next balloon off target. It flies into a portrait causing its occupants to shriek and move to their neighbours' frames.

“Let’s say that I believe you about the ambient magic or whatever that’s helping you keep your ghost marbles.” Dean shouts at the monk. “But what the hell is up with this one?!”

“Peeves is a poltergeist, he is.”

“Causes more trouble than he’s worth,”

“But so do we,”

“If you ask our mum, anyways.” 

Dean glances up at two students. He almost thinks that he hit the wall harder than he thought, but he quickly realises that they are identical to each other. 

“Morning Peeves!” The boys greet the ghost simultaneously. Peeves’ grin shifts to one that makes him seem more delighted than maniacal.

“And good morning to you, Weasleys! How can I help you today?”

“We are glad that you asked.” They say in unison.

“As you know, we are always up for a good prank,”

“And any other day, we would probably ask to join you in throwing those balloons at unsuspecting individuals.”

“But we’re going to need Professor Dean. Him being our prof and all. Never really thought we’d say this,”

“But we’ve heard some good reviews about his classes, and we’d like to experience them for ourselves.”

Peeves looks like he’s mulling over what the twins said before a smile splits his face again. “Alright, boys. I guess I can find another use for these.” He turns and floats down the hallways, throwing balloons at the students who are now dissipating and heading to their classes causing them to shriek and run faster.

The Friar just apologizes for the trouble and floats down the hallway and out of sight.

Dean looks incredulously at the twins who are both grinning at him. “I don’t know why he listened to you two, but thanks. I guess.”

“No need to thank us, we helped you for purely selfish reasons.”

“And don’t even think about giving us points. It would ruin our reputation.” 

Dean heaves himself up off the floor with a grunt. “Alright. Let’s get going…what are your names?”

“Fred and George.” They say together.

“Fred and George.” Dean says. “I don’t think I can be late to my own class, but my brother will probably nag my ear off if I am.” Dean casts a spell which dries his hair and robes.  
“We can relate to that.” The twins chime together. Dean is shocked by the family tree that they lay out for him. Three older brothers, one younger brother, and a sister.

“You had Ron in your class yesterday.”

“Ginny would be in your first year class, whenever that is.”

“Any Percy is a git, so he doesn’t count.”

Dean gives a huff of laughter. “What year is he in?”

“Sixth.”

“He’s Sam’s problem, then,” Dean smiles. The twins look delighted that Dean is willing to joke with them.

“So, what are learning today?” One of the twins asks. 

“That’s something you’ll have to wait and see,” Dean steps through the door and sees Sam sitting on the front desk looking relieved that he’s shown up. Sam looks at him in a way that asks where he’s been. “Later,” Dean mouths back. He reaches the front of the room, and checks his watch. He’s within a minute of the class starting, which is a relief. 

“Alright, now that I’m finally here, welcome to Defence against the Dark Arts.” Dean smiles at the class. Despite his rough start to the day, he has a feeling that it’s going to get better from here.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey, so remember how I said I would update in December? Yeeeaaahhhh I ended up getting sick for most of my break and didn't get a chance to write before school started again. Sorry, but I hope that you all enjoy this update! Shout out to "Bell" who asked about the ghosts on chapter 4, and it gave me inspiration to address some of the issue in this chapter! Thanks also to everyone who has favourited, followed and reviewed, without you guys, I probably would have given up on this story a long time ago! Thank you!  
> Edit: I had to remove a little bit from Chapter 4 where I'd already addressed the ghosts? Oops? :P Ah well, one chapter on the issue sure beats one sentence mentioned offhandedly. Sorry for any confusion this might have caused!


	8. Soul Kitchen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (honestly, I just liked the name for this song. Soul Kitchen - The Doors)

The third year lesson ends early, as most first classes of terms do. Sam brushes his hair back from his face, feeling the exhaustion of his bad night’s sleep creeping up on him as the classroom empties. He’s just glad that Dean didn’t fling spells at him today because he probably would have been hit. 

Dean waves at the two identical students he had entered the room with. They wave back and give him thumbs up before turning to leave with their friend. “Who are those guys?” Sam gestures after them.

“Just some kids I ran into before class. Actually, that’s something we should probably talk about. Let’s get out of this castle, though. It’s kind of stuffy.”

“Well, you haven’t gone outside in a few days, so you could probably use it.” Sam teases as he locks the door behind them, using the spell that McGonagall had taught him to prevent students from entering the rooms unsupervised. 

“And you have, Mr. High-and-Mighty?” 

“I went for a jog this morning.” Dean groans loudly. “Come on, Dean. You should probably start working out with me too. The dining hall’s food is too good, and if I go on a hunt with you and you can’t even keep ahead of a vamp, I might just let it get you.” They both know that he wouldn’t, but his point is made.

“This is no reflection of me as a person, but I might take you up on that offer. Especially if they keep serving pie for dessert.” Sam almost is able to stop his fist-pump of victory. Almost. Dean gives him a side glare which Sam ignores.

“So, why were you late for class, Dean?”

“Almost late. I had a minute to spare.”

“And why you have two new friends?” Sam adds as an afterthought.

“Those are actually related to the thing we need to talk about. This castle is crawling with ghosts.” Sam stops walking.

_“What.”_

“Hey, relax. Seriously, Sam. Apparently British ghosts aren’t as coo-coo for Co-Co Puffs as the ones are back home. I ran into two this morning and I talked to them.” His brother sputters, not knowing how to respond, but he catches up to Dean, and they keep walking.

“You _can’t_ talk to _ghosts._ ”

“You can with these ghosts. The ghost I met told me that Britain has more residual magic around that lets ghosts keep more of the character that they had when alive. I don’t really understand it myself, but I thought it was something we could look at.”

“How did we not even come across that?! We have been hunting since birth, and not once have I read ‘Hey, British ghosts won’t repeatedly throw you into walls!’” 

“Well, they can.” Dean adds unhelpfully. Sam gives him the look. The ‘Sammy is judging you and your life choices,’ look. Dean gets it a lot. “It needed my attention and I wasn’t the easiest to convince that the ghost wasn’t dangerous. It didn’t help that there was a poltergeist too.”

“Dean!”

“Okay, that ghost was an ass, but that’s where Fred and George came in! They somehow convinced it to leave me alone. And it wasn’t trying to kill me. It actually just threw some water balloons.”

Sam rubs his hands on his face muttering something that sounded something like ‘Fucking Britain.’

“I need to visit the library here and figure out what it is that we are missing. I’m going to have to rework all of my teaching material!” Sam huffs, collapsing onto a bench in the courtyard. Dean settles down next to him, bumping his fist on Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey, there can’t be that much different. You could even get another prof to look at your outlines to check. Besides, I teach most of the ‘Dark Creatures’ stuff to my years.”  
“But we can’t be alright with just not knowing these things! Imagine a kid getting hurt because we gave them the wrong information.” 

The smile falls from Dean’s face. “We can meet with Dumbledore about it. He could probably point us in the right direction of someone who could help. Plus I still need to ask him about who got into our rooms last night. But we can do that later.” Dean leans back on the bench closing his eyes. Like magic, the tension leaves his face, and he almost looks like the 28 year old he is. “Wake me up for lunch.”  
“Sure thing, Dean.” Sam smiles. He pulls out the book he had in his bag and settles more comfortably on the bench, letting his brother nap beside him, and enjoying the sunshine.  


-.-.-.-

After lunch, Sam and Dean met with two more classes. That just left the sixth year class that met for three hours on Wednesday evenings, and Dean’s first years who had class Wednesday and Friday afternoons.  


Dean is finally able to speak with Dumbledore that night at supper. Dean lets Sam know he will join him at the spots to the side of the table that they had become accustomed to, and sits beside the headmaster. This earns him a raised eyebrow from the hook-nosed professor who is sitting on the other side of Dumbledore, already engaged in a conversation with him. Dumbledore nods at Dean and then wraps up his conversation with the other teacher. 

“Hello, Dean. I apologize for not checking in with you earlier regarding how your classes are going. Is everything well?”

“Yeah, it’s actually been fantastic.” Dean says honestly. “The students here are really smart. I might need to adjust my lesson plans because they might pick up on some concepts quicker than I thought they would.”

The hook-nosed professor speaks up. “Well of course. I do not know what it was like at _Ilvermorny,_ but we would not accept just any students at Hogwarts.” Dean is about to defend his school when Dumbledore interrupts.

“Now, Severus. There is no need for that.” Dumbledore chides. “I have been to Ilvermorny myself, and it is a good school filled with very bright students.” He turns to Dean. “I am glad that things are going well. Although, I did hear from the Friar that there was an issue earlier today between you and our resident poltergeist, Peeves.”

Dean’s hand trails to his shoulder which is still a little tense from being thrown into the wall. “Yeah, it was a misunderstanding more than anything. American ghosts are violent bastards. I didn’t realize there was such basic differences between our monster types. That’s one thing I wanted to ask you about. Would you be able to arrange for Sam and me to meet with someone who can review our lesson plans? We know that werewolves and vamps are different when it's wizards that are turned, but if there’s anything else, we should know so the students get accurate information.”

Dumbledore gives this some thought. “Well, Severus here is familiar with the Defence Against the Dark Arts class material. Severus, would you be able to review their lesson plans?” 

The professor’s expression shows that he would rather swallow nails, but he agrees to help. Dean thanks them both. He gets up to leave, but then remembers something else. “Wait. I also wanted to ask about the room service that Sam and I got yesterday. Someone got into my room, but they really shouldn’t have been able to because I had warded it. Do you know anything about that?”

“Oh, that would have been the house elves.” Dumbledore explains cheerily. “They are able to apparate using their magic. It is fundamentally different than wizard magic which must be why it did not trigger your wards.”

“The what now?”

Severus sneers. “You seriously don’t know what house elves are?” 

Dean leans forward and glares around Dumbledore to the professor who keeps making snide comments. He has had enough. “Look, buddy. I can run circles around you any day with my knowledge of monsters and how to deal with them. I hunt them and have saved more people with that skill than you could even imagine.” The professor’s wide eyes show that, like many who had made the same mistake, though Dean was just a pretty face. But Dean’s green eyes are filled with enough anger to make hook-nose re-evaluate this assessment. “So I don’t know everything about somewhere I’ve been less than a month? _Bite me._ You wouldn’t last a day in my shoes.”

Severus looks like he is about to snap back when Dumbledore calmly raises his hand to break the staring contest. “You are both being unreasonable. Severus, it is unrealistic for Dean, and Sam for that matter, to be completely knowledgeable of all the magical creatures on two different continents. I am at fault for not guiding some of their research to those they would encounter here at Hogwarts.” He turns to Dean. “And one’s rudeness should not be countered with disrespect. Severus is very knowledgeable in his field of potions, and while he likely would not be able to do your job, you would not be able to do his either.” Dean bows his head in embarrassment, his righteous fury dissipating as quickly as it had come. He feels like he just got the mickey taken out of him by Missouri Moseley. 

“Sorry.” Dean says, meeting Severus’ eyes.

“I am as well,” Severus responds honestly. He takes a breath. “House elves are magical creatures who often serve old wizarding families by doing household tasks like cleaning and cooking. Hogwarts has hundreds on staff who clean the castle, keep fires going, and cook,” he explains. 

“Is there any way to keep them out of my room? I’m really not okay with them coming in.”

“I can speak with them for you,” Dumbledore offers, “or you could yourself. Maybe meeting them will change your mind.” Dumbledore gives him strange instructions on how to talk to the elves, but Dean commits them to memory.

“Alright, I’ll do it after supper. Thanks for your help. I’ll talk with you later about going over lesson plans, Severus?” The professor nods and goes back to his food. Dean sits with Sam and relays everything he was talking about while piling food onto his plate. He is soon done.

“So, are you up for some exploring, Sam?” 

And that was how they had ended up at a portrait of some fruit.

Dean scrutinizes the picture. “And so, I guess we just tickle the pear.”

“Got it.” Sam touches the painted pear until it starts giggling causing Sam to pull his hand back quickly as a doorknob appears. He reaches to turn it when Dean clears his throat. Sighing, Sam turns around, and does rock paper scissors. Typically, Dean’s scissors loses to his rock, and Sam steps back to let his brother enter first. Even though there’s likely no danger in the kitchens, Sam knows that old habits die hard. 

High pitched voices are the first things they hear as they enter the kitchens. Sam is shocked when he notices the floor is crawling with small, big-eared creatures. “So these are house elves,” he mutters to himself. This causes every head to turn their way and suddenly, the Winchesters are the focus of hundreds of wide eyes. 

“Uh,” Dean waves. “Hi.” A chorus of ‘hellos’ is his response, and while many elves return to the work of setting and removing plates from the tables which Sam notices are exactly like the arrangement in the Great Hall, several come up to the brothers. 

“Hello sirs! What can we get for you?” 

“Could I get a coffee?” Dean asks tentatively. 

“Yes, of course, sir! Would you like anything in it? Anything to go with it?”

“Black coffee is fine. And could I get a cheeseburger?”

“You just ate!” Sam exclaims.

“Yeah, but I didn’t eat a burger!” 

“Would you like any coffee, sir?” the house elf asks Sam. He nods.

“Sure. Black as well, please,” and the elves scurry off to make the requests. Dean flags one of them down.

“I was wondering if I could talk with one of you who is in charge of cleaning and stuff in the castle?”

“Of course! Gilly is in charge and at your service, sir!” Dean figures this elf is Gilly as it makes a bow so deep its nose brushes the floor.

“My brother and I are new to Hogwarts, and we were wondering if maybe you and your cleaning crew could maybe skip over our rooms?”

The house elf’s ears droop to the sides of its head and its eyes well up. “Oh dear! Oh dear! I am so sorry, sir! Is the service not good enough? We can work harder, sir. Gilly will personally make sure your rooms are spotless! Gilly promises!”

Thrown off, Dean raises his hands to placate the creature. Sam steps over.

“No, what Dean meant was we don’t really like people going through our stuff. You…did a great job cleaning everything. That was fine.” The elf’s ears raise slightly and it wipes its tears on the stained clothes it was wearing. 

“Thank you, sir. But how will the fire keep going if us house elves can’t get into your rooms?”

Dean, recovering from the elf’s mood swings suggests setting up a laundry basket for the clothes that need washing. That way the elves won’t go through their things and find things that Dean and Sam didn’t want them finding. 

The elf seems happy with this compromise. “I will get you some baskets and tell the other cleaning elves to let them know about the Masters’ requests. Thank you, sirs!” Gilly trots off and other elves approach with two coffee mugs and a cheese burger. One snaps its fingers and a small table appears with two chairs. 

“Here you are, sirs!”

“Thanks,” they both chime.

“So, you’re not going to ask them about the wards and how to improve them? I thought for sure you’d try to fill in any loop hole there might be.” Sam whispers to that the elves don’t pick up anything.  
“They seem alright. I’m not too worried about them stabbing me in my sleep,” Dean shrugs, speaking around the burger in his mouth.

Once they finally extract themselves from the kitchen with their new baskets, and politely refuse the offers of more food and drink (mostly. Dean does accept some firewhiskey,) they finally get back to their rooms.

“So, are you getting up with me tomorrow to train?” Sam asks Dean. Dean looks up at the ceiling, wondering whether he’s lost his sanity.

“Yeah. See you at 5am. G’night, Sammy,” Dean says, even though they both know that they won’t be sleeping until much later. “If you need anything, just ask. I’ll be writing out my lesson ideas for Severus to look over.” 

“Sure thing. Goodnight Dean.” Sam closes the door behind him, belatedly realizing that he hadn’t told Dean of his dream last night. He shrugs. It probably wasn’t important anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: YOU'RE WRONG SAM. Anyways, guess who finally finished their third year of university and got a job in their field for the summer! (This kid!) This chapter actually came pretty easily once I figured out how to get everything in that I wanted to. I actually started this so many times until I just sat down yesterday and hashed it out. No guarantees, but I'm feeling pretty good about this story right now, and I might finally update semi-regularly.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has left kind reviews on this story! You guys are so amazing, and I wish that I wasn't such a butt about replying, I just get so embarrassed ;_; I will try harder to respond to your questions and comments, but half the time I don't have an answer. (Like, someone asked how old Dean and Sam were and I didn't know until I wrote this chapter XD) I am glad that so many of you are liking this mess. I don't even watch Supernatural anymore, despite still loving the characters and the story, so if any characters are completely wrong, just give me some constructive criticism to help me find my way again.
> 
> Lastly, if you have and suggestions regarding what you would like to see in this story, or anything you would like explained more, just let me know!
> 
> Edit: I've gone through the story so far and edited formatting, spelling and plot mistakes. Nothing major, just some inconsistencies which veteran readers likely didn't pick up from my slow updates :P Thanks to everyone else for putting up with my mistakes!


	9. Hot for the Teacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I think of all the education that I missed._   
>  _But then my homework was never quite like this._   
>  _Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad,_   
>  _I'm hot for teacher._   
>  _\- Van Halen_

Dean still despised the idea of exercising for the sake of it, but he had to admit that the misty morning was actually really relaxing. After several laps around the castle, he and Sam had ended up walking at the edge of the lake stretching.

The burn that Dean feels in his muscles is something he has missed, to his surprise. While attending no-mag schools, John had made him and Sam run laps around the track after school to start their evening workout. What followed was intense sparring or just working out. As a result, Dean had always been able to wipe the floor whenever there was a competition in gym for who could do the most push-ups; they never got anywhere near the minimum John would make him and Sam do every day. 

The Winchesters had even continued their training when they attended Ilvermorny. John, being friends with Headmaster Singer, was able to take his boys out of school whenever he needed their help for hunts. It made for some awkward excuses between them and classmates, but in the end, their periodic disappearances just added to the mystery of the Winchesters. Once Dean was out of school, he no longer needed to exercise because he was hunting full-time. But here he was once more, trying to keep his body from giving out on him at the least convenient times. 

Sam checks his watch once his breathing returns to normal. “We’ve still got some time until I need to get ready for class. Did you want to duel? It’s been a long time since I’ve practised.” 

“I don’t know, Sammy. Are you sure you can handle a beating this early in the morning?” Dean teases. He reaches for the wand holstered to his wrist. 

“Yeah, I think so,” Sam cracks his neck and grabs his own wand. “I even think that watching one might brighten my day a lot. Ready?” 

“Always,” Dean smirks. He flicks his wand and a ball of light rises into the air. It pulses once, twice, and the third pulse it pops and fizzles out. Dean wastes no time in sending an offensive spell at Sam as soon as the light dissipated. 

_“Confringo!”_

_“Protego!”_ Sam counters and a shield protects him from Dean’s predictably quick offence. Silently, Sam casts a _Fumos spell,_ causing smoke to appear. Moving like a wisp, Sam steps through the smoke to the right of Dean. A strategy is already forming in his head to attack Dean after his brother gets rid of the smoke and is disoriented by Sam’s disappearance. But a sudden strong gust of wind blowing from Dean’s wand unexpectedly clears the smoke and throws him off his feet. Sam skids painfully along the shore.

 _“Wingardium Leviosa!”_ Dean raises some rocks about the size of golf balls from the lakeside and sends them at Sam. Sam quickly casts _Reducto_ at each rock coming towards him, causing them to explode into gravel as he scrambles to regain his feet. A part of Sam is grateful that all of the rocks are specifically aimed at his torso, arms, or legs, but he still curses violently when a few hit him.

 _“Bombarda!”_ The last of the rocks explode and Sam runs forward, casting a stickfast hex to Dean’s shoes, preventing him from dodging Sam’s oncoming fist. It was understood in Winchester duels that any resource available were acceptable to use. The crowds that they fought with didn’t care about bringing guns to a knife fight, so they practised that way too. Dean likely has this thought running through his head as he takes Sam’s fist to his face. Dean’s jaw clacks painfully, but he still manages to cast the spell to untie his shoes on his way to the ground, slipping out of them quickly. 

Hands planted on the ground behind him, Dean flips his legs up and kicks his brother harshly in the ribs, pushing Sam backwards. Sam drops his wand as his hand grasps his torso. But Dean takes no chances with how Sam might react. _“Carpe Retractum,”_ he mutters quietly, pointing his wand at an overhanging tree branch. An orange string of magic seizes the branch, and yanking at his wand, Dean pulls himself towards it and away from Sam. Sam is left glancing around, trying to figure out where his brother went through his fuzzy vision. 

From his perch in the tree, Dean begins to assault Sam with spells. _“Flippendo!”_ Dean sends a strong knockback jinx at Sam who would have stepped right into the lake if he had not quickly casted a freezing spell on a portion of the water. Without his wand, Sam reaches towards the location Dean’s branch attaches to the rest of the tree.

 _“Bombarda Maxima!”_ Sam’s spell is not as effective without his wand, but the explosion is enough for the branch Dean is perched on to separate from the rest of the tree. With a yelp, Dean comes crashing to the ground right at the edge of the lake. Sam falls upon Dean, attempting to pin him to the ground, but Dean keeps managing to wiggle out of any grip Sam gets on him. Changing tactics, Sam casts a spell that puts a blindfold on Dean, leaving him fumbling. Taking his chance, Sam takes a few steps away from his brother. Dean manages to rip the blindfold off just in time to see Sam’s malicious grin as he charges at his brother. 

“Sam! Don’t!” But the younger Winchester football tackles Dean into the lake anyways.

Sputtering and laughing, they emerge from the water and Dean replaces his wand in his holster. The duel is obviously over. Dean tosses his shirt to the side of the lake and swims farther into the water. Sam does the same and follows. 

“Nice use of the _Ventus_ spell on the smoke, Dean. I was sure that you would use _Finite Incantatum_ and was not ready at all.” 

“I honestly didn’t even think of _Finite._ I really should brush up on my spells.” Dean admits, as they give their ritual tactic evaluation. “It took me a while to remember how to freaking untie my shoes with magic. Hexes in a duel always throw me off because those tend to be more for children. You child.” Dean teases.

“Hey, it worked.”

“Yeah, but you still got kicked in the gut. So how did that work out for you?” His response from Sam is a face full of lake water.

-.-.-.-

Sam arrives at his class early and sits at the desk waiting for the students to arrive. His hair is still a little damp from his shower after the lake. He dried it as best he could with a towel because if he used a spell his hair would be unbearably poofy. And he, as a Winchester, did not to poofy very well. 

As the students roll in, he smiles at them kindly. Sam is actually surprised at how many students show up to his class. He remembers the morning classes at Stanford always being half empty because the students were too tired to get up.

A few girls blush and giggle to their friends as Sam catches their eyes which confuses him. They didn’t have this reaction on Monday. Maybe he was just so nervous that he hadn’t noticed, or perhaps he had been talking to Dean at the time. Sam figures it’s best to ignore the giddy students, and he keeps smiling at those entering the room. Sam thinks that maybe he is imagining the pieces of conversation he hears. “yeah, they were by the lake and they were-” “-jogging, but then-“ Sam belatedly realizes that his and Dean’s spar might have actually caught the attention of some students. He doesn’t know why, though. It was pretty standard spell work they were doing. Then he catches “-tattoos. No, I swear! Anne was out walking from the greenhouses and they were swimming in the lake! She couldn’t make out what it was, but they’re definitely both inked” Sam’s eyes widen and he tries to block out the conversation unsuccessfully. He didn’t even think about moving out of view from the castle before dueling Dean, but it will be something he won’t forget in the future.

Pushing the conversation from his mind, Sam realizes that it’s time to start the lesson. So with one last glance at his lesson plan, he stands up from his desk. 

“Good morning! I’m glad that so many of you made it out to class this morning because I know how hard morning classes can be. Today we’re going to start out with a bit of review, just to make sure everyone knows what they need to for us to move onto other material. If you have any questions about last year’s class that really didn’t make sense, now’s the time to get them cleared up. Chances are, if you have the question, other people probably are thinking the same one.” Sam is actually surprised when one student quickly raises their hand. “Could all of you introduce yourselves when I call on you? I’ll need to learn your names.” He gestures to the student in the front row.

“Jacob Bowen, sir. I was wondering if the Unforgivable Curses would be on the N.E.W.T. exams. I had some troubles last year with these spells, especially resisting the Imperious curse.” Some other students nod their heads.

“Thanks for the question, Jacob. If I’m right, you looked at the effects of the unforgivable curses last year, and the professor was to show you what the Imperious felt like?” There were nods around the classroom. “Who was actually successful in resisting it? A show of hands?” Only three students raised their hands. “Alright. How many were at least able to recognize that they were under the curse by the end of the year?” All of the students raised their hands. Sam nods to himself. “Good. It is actually pretty uncommon for someone to be able to resist the curse completely, especially when there is a lot of malicious intent behind it, so good work to the three who are able.

“Resisting the Imperious will not be on your N.E.W.T.’s because it is something that some people are naturally better at than others. Your first line of defence is always blocking the spell and if that fails, at least try to hold on to the idea that what you are doing is not actually you. However, this is still a good life skill, so if you wish to practice resisting the Imperious curse, I am available in my office hours. Any other questions?”

One student pipes up, “Clara Lyons. Are you able to resist the Imperious curse, Professor?”

“Uh…mostly.” Sam is thrown off by the unexpected question. He has had a few occasions when the spell had been used on him, but for the most part he was able to break its hold. “As I said, it’s something that some witches and wizards pick up easier than others. Anyone else?”

“Why are you so hot?”

The muttered question causes the entire class to erupt in laughter. Sam can feel his face getting really red. A part of him recognizes that Dean would probably have had a smart comeback to regain face in front of the class, but all Sam can think is _nope. Nope. NOPE._

Sam clears his throat awkwardly as the giggling peters out. “Well, if there’s no more questions, let’s get to work. I asked you to read chapters one and two of the textbook, but it’s the first week of classes, so I doubt many of you did. Can anyone summarize the chapters for everyone?”

The class runs surprisingly smooth after the one student’s outburst but Sam is still relieved when it is time to dismiss them. Yes he realizes that he is the youngest professor at this school but it is so awkward to know that students think of him that way. He figures the best he can do is ignore it, though.

Sam doesn’t know where Dean will be at this time, but he doubts that he could find him before his brother’s class begins. He turns to the nearest portrait, one of an old witch knitting something, the needles clicking at an incredible pace. “Hello,” Sam steps up to the portrait to catch her attention. “Do you know how to get to the library from here?” 

The witch smiles at him. “Of course! Benson can lead you there. I have to finish this scarf.” 

“Benson?” His answer is a meow. A large maine coon is on the floor of the painting and is looking at his expectantly. “Okay. Lead the way, Benson.” Sam sets off following the cat as it travels from portrait to portrait. It turns out Sam wasn’t far from the library, having to only go down to the main floor. The cat stops at the painting closest to the library, and sits proudly. Sam thanks him, and heads into the library. 

As soon as he steps into the large space he feels the same giddiness he always does when stepping into an old library. Wooden shelves reach high enough to brush the tall ceiling and Sam imagines what it would be like to have read every single book in this library – what he could learn. 

A voice in his head which sounds vaguely like Dean tells him to get a move on. So he does, and meanders through the shelves. There are a few students around, but barely any. Sam supposes that most students have no reason to be here this early in the term. Sam isn’t even sure where to look for books which would help his class, but that is when he hears someone cough pointedly behind him. Sam turns around and see a woman with a pinched face glaring at him over her glasses. 

“Can I help you find anything?” She has an armful of books which she sends away to their shelves with a wave of her wand.

“I’m looking for books about the differences between the Dark Arts in Britain and America. I’m the new Defence teacher along with my brother.”

“Alright. Follow me.” The woman speaks shortly and to the point, but she knows what she’s doing. In a way, she reminds Sam of Bobby because he leaves with both an armload of books and a feeling that if he harmed the books, he would face at best a fine, and at worst, death. 

Sam decides to hole himself up in his room for the rest of the morning to read through his new collection. It seems like a more attractive option than pretending to not notice the doe eyes that students keep giving him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Well, I've managed to keep my promise so far about semi-regular updating. If you happen to reread this story, you may notice that I've edited the whole thing so almost all technical mistakes are fixed, and some continuity things as well. Hopefully this will make (re)reading a lot easier. 
> 
> I totally didn't read a whole list of spells in Harry Potter to write that fight scene...not at all...I also hope that I didn't make this chapter too weird? I wanted to address the students finding the Winchesters attractive, but I've read stuff from other authors where they make the situations really awkward. Let me know what you think and I can try to make it better if need be D:
> 
> Thanks for reading! Reviews and suggestions are welcome!


	10. Fight Fire with Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh there is nothing to lose_   
>  _'Cause it's already lost_   
>  _In a runaway world of confusion_   
>  _I'm gonna take it._   
>  _That's why I fight fire with fire_   
>  _\- Kansas_

Dean arrives in class much more punctually than he had yesterday which turns out to be a very good thing. Dean enters his classroom to see two students nose to nose and shouting while the rest of the class watches. If he had arrived any later, Dean might have been taking the blonde Slytherin to the hospital and giving the red-head a detention and tips on how to improve his right hook.

“Hey! That’s enough!” Dean’s voice booms through the room and all eyes turn to him. “You two, sit down right now. Even if you wanted to fight, you’re not ready for it at all. You don’t have your wand easily accessible,” Dean points to the Slytherin, “and you are way too close to make your punch effective, not to mention your fist form is poor.” Both boys seem embarrassed and startled at Dean’s commentary. “What? If you’re going to fight, that’s none of my business. But don’t do it in my classroom, and don’t make me look bad by fighting poorly.”

Dean walks to the front of the classroom. “The lesson from last class was to keep your wands accessible. How many of you started to consistently carry your wands so that they are easy to use?” Almost the entire class raises their hands. Dean sighs. “Could all the people who are lying please lower your hands?” Dean watches as most hands are lowered and he is left with only a handful who did their ‘homework.’ “Alright, that’s more believable. I wasn’t expecting you all to get into the habit right away because it is difficult to remember not to just shove it into your bag for the day. This is only our second class together, but I expect by next week to have much more of you taking my advice seriously. 

“Something that wasn’t on my class list for the day, but what was raised so kindly by the two who were itching for a fight, is how to make a proper fist. Everyone raise your dominant hand in front of you like this,” Dean demonstrates and faces his palm to the class. “Close your fingers tightly, and then curl them into a fist. Close your thumb around your knuckles, and then you’re ready for hitting things.” Dean punches the air in front of him with two quick jabs. “If you ball your fist like this,” Dean closes his fist, showing how his fingertips rest in his palm, “Your fist is less sturdy, and your fingers have a greater chance of getting injured. One student raises a tentative hand. Dean notes it’s the girl from Monday who had noticed Sam doing wandless magic. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry for asking, sir, but what does fist fighting actually have to do with Defence Against the Dark Arts?”

“It’s no problem, and it’s actually a good point. What do you guys think?” Dean opens the question up to the class. “How would being able to physically fight help you if you had to defend yourself against, say, a dark warlock or witch. Say your names as we go too, please.” Dean gestures to the student who had his hand up first.

“Seamus Finnigan. It would be unexpected, for one.”

“That’s right. In a duel between magic folk there is often some honour at stake. There are rules, and Codes of Conduct. But if you have gotten into an informal fight with another magic user and they are gearing up towards using a nasty dark curse, sometimes an unexpected punch may be all that is needed to end the fight – if it is thrown well. My brother for one, is very good at throwing punches.” Dean taps his left cheek gently which he can feel is several shades of bruised. “We had a practice duel this morning and if he had been fighting someone who wasn’t used to those kinds of tactics, he probably would have got an easy win. Any other thoughts?”

“Harry Potter, sir. We could be away from Hogwarts for the summer and not be allowed to do magic.”

Dean notices that the student doesn’t use the word ‘home,’ but he doesn’t comment on it. “That is true. But keep in mind that between getting a slap on the wrist for using magic and protecting yourselves, and getting seriously injured, always choose the former. Someone else this time, preferably without a red tie.”

“Ernie MacMillan. We might not have our wands with us at the time.”

Dean places his hand on his chest and feigns being aghast. “What do you mean? You should always be carrying your wand!”

The kid stumbles over his sentence trying to bring his point together. “Well, we might have dropped it during the duel or they could have used  
_Expelliarmus_ to make us drop it.” 

Dean grins. “Yup, those are good points. Even though you are all magic users, there may be times when you don’t have your wand on you. Although it shouldn’t be because you’ve forgotten it at home.” Some of the class giggles. “Someone who wants to fight you isn’t going to wait for you to pick up your wand when they just made you drop it. So, keep your options open. 

“This is actually a great segue into today’s lesson. We’ll be working on the spell _Expelliarmus,_ otherwise known as the Disarming Charm.” Dean puts the phonetic spelling on the board. After making the class say the spell and showing them the wand movement several times, he lets them break into pairs. With a wave of his own wand, Dean moves all of the desks to the side of the room, and the students begin practicing the spell on each other. Dean stops and gives them tips as he goes by.

“It’s not just a jab. There’s actually a small movement that you have to do with your wrist. See? Try it again. Yeah! You got it!”

“Emphasis is pretty important. Ex-PELL-ee-ARE-muss. Sorry, my accent can turn into a pretty thick drawl, sometimes.” Dean jokes with a Ravenclaw student who was getting frustrated at not mastering the spell right away. They are quickly successful though and they smile at him proudly. He gives them a thumbs up. 

Dean continues his walk until he reaches the Gryffindor who had asked the initial question about fighting in duels. She has gotten the spell down pat and is quickly frustrating her partner who keeps having to retrieve their wand. Dean places a hand on her shoulder to get her attention over the voices of students practicing the spell. 

“Thank you for asking your question –“

“Hermione Granger.”

“Ms. Granger,” Dean smiles. “I’m glad that the class had a discussion about relying on more than just magic. I probably would have left the class with just proper fist-form, but I think that it really sunk home with talking about it. So, thanks. And good spellwork.” Dean can see Hermione preening under the praise. He didn’t want her to leave class feel reprimanded from the discussion. Dean finishes his walk around the students, and glancing at his watch he jolts. _Class is over already?_ Dean whistles with his fingers, causing everyone to stop what they were doing and look at him.

“Great work today, everyone. Your only homework for the weekend is to practice the Disarming Spell so we can come back to it on Monday. You should also work on making the proper fist shape. I’m not condoning you all become street fighters, but if you need to throw a few punches to get yourselves out of sticky situations, at least be able to do it right. See you guys next week.” The students leave with grins on their faces and Dean watches them leave with a smile of his own. However, grinning reminds him painfully of his still bruised face. He had forgotten to get patch himself up after he and Sam parted ways that morning, although the bruise did serve as an alright demonstration in his lesson. With a quick stop in the bathroom and some healing magic, Dean's face is as good as new as he heads to the Great Hall for lunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I bet y’all didn’t expect my oversharing and excessive smileys when I said I would reply to your comments, but here we are. I wanted to add more to this chapter, but my muse has gone awol and I wanted to give you guys something. Thank you to everyone who has faved, followed, and reviewed! I love you all!


	11. Can't Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Can't stop the spirits when they need you,_   
>  _This life is more than just a read through._   
>  _\- Red Hot Chili Peppers_

Dean sees Sam's furrowed brows as he approaches the teacher's table in the Great Hall and he can tell that something is bothering his brother. He sits down beside Sam and knocks his shoulder with his fist.

"What's up, little bro? Bad class?" When he saw them last, it had seemed like the 7th year class had warmed up to his brother after Sam had verbally knocked one kid down a few notches. 

"No, the class was great, actually and I was able to visit the library afterwards" Sam tells Dean about some of the things he picked up on British monsters and differences in dark magic that might make for good additions in their lessons.

“But that’s not what’s eating you,” Dean says.

"There was something else though that came up in class." Sam mutters his next sentence to himself. 

Dean raises an eyebrow. "What was that?" Sam looks like he has just swallowed some particularly strong alcohol. He eventually finds his tongue.

"I said that some of the girls in my class think that I'm hot."

Dean throws his head back in laughter. "Seriously? That's what's eating you? You get that all the time from girls in bars back home, so what's the problem?"

"They're just kids!"

"Kids who should know that they don't have a vampire's chance in sunlight to actually get together with you. It's just something that women do.” Dean makes a gesture as if to visually represent the mysteries of females. “They talk about celebrities or other people they find attractive, they giggle to each other, and they move on with their lives." Dean begins loading his plate with food. Sam remains quiet. "Come on Sam, you know I'm right. Say it so you can stop moping."

"I’m not moping!" Dean rolls his eyes at Sam. "Okay, I might have been. A little bit.” Dean says nothing. “Fine. You're right." Sam finally admits and then turns back to his own plate of food to avoid looking at Dean’s know-it-all smirk. They eat in silence for a while before Dean remembers something.

“I wrote some letters for Bobby and Ellen the other day, but I think we’ll need to find a post office to mail them by bird. I'm pretty sure that the school owls won't do international trips."

"You could just snail-mail them,” Sam suggests.

"But that would take longer than an owl. Ellen has probably reached the peak of her anger with us already, but I know Bobby won't be happy if we don't let him know how we're doing soon. 

The portly woman sitting beside Sam turns around to face them. "Did you boys say you wanted to know where you could find the nearest post office?" The Winchesters nod. "Well, that would be in Hogsmeade. It's the village just a stone's throw from Hogwarts. You just need to go through the main gate and follow the path down the hill and you're there.”  
“I think professor McGonagall mentioned that we’re supposed to stay at Hogwarts during the week,” Sam says. “We could head there on Saturday,” he suggests to Dean, but the woman leans in conspiratorially and lowers her voice. 

“Teachers technically aren't supposed to leave the grounds during school hours, but as long as you don't have office hours or any other duties it's not usually an issue," the woman says and then returns to a normal speaking volume. "I am Pomona Sprout, by the way. But blast, I have forgotten your names! I was distracted at the feast because I was thinking about all the work that needs to be done in the Greenhouses. They always get a little out of hand over the summer because there are no students to help care for them."

"It's no problem, really. I'm Sam Winchester and this is my brother Dean. Thanks for the help."

"You're very welcome. You boys are from America, right?"

"Yeah. Proud students of Ilvermorny," Dean says. "But don't make us sing the school’s song."

Sprout laughs. "I feel the same way about Hogwarts' song. It's funny the first few times, but I have been teaching at this school for many years now and I, along with most of the staff, have to restrain myself from leaving the hall as soon as the first notes start. What were you boys up to before Professor Dumbledore asked you to teach? You're not exactly fresh out of school."

"We were doing some freelance work," Dean lies easily. "Just helping out some people here and there with problems. Sometimes no-mags get way over their heads in magic without even realizing it and so my brother and I keep an eye out for those problems and help out where we can. Our dad did the same thing so it's a family business of sorts." Dean thanks his lucky stars that he and Sam’s usual cover story was easily converted just by adding magic as a descriptor word instead of monsters. He will need to hash out the finer details of their cover story with Sam later.

"So do you work for MACUSA then?" Sprout asks. Sam almost spits out his drink and he begins coughing. Dean can hear the laughter underneath and he smirks as the thought of how Hendrickson would react if he found Sam and Dean’s resumes in his stack of potential auror applicants.

Dean hits his brother’s back to help him find air. "As I said, we freelance. We don't work for them."

"Oh. I was just wondering because that sounds like some of the work that the Ministry of Magic does to protect muggles from magic they accidentally run into.” Sprout checks her watch and then stands up. “It was nice chatting with you two, but I need to set up the Greenhouses for my next class. I will hopefully see you both later." 

Sam and Dean bid her farewell and then turn to each other. 

"What's our story?" They whisper in unison. Their eyebrows crease. “Later.”  
-.-.-.-  
By an unspoken agreement, Sam and Dean head outside the castle once they are done eating and make their way to Hogsmeade. 

As Professor Sprout had promised, the village really wasn't that far from the castle. It was quaint and there were only a few people wandering around the streets. Dean felt like he had been thrown back into Medieval times, like this part of the world was just a fief to the castle of Hogwarts. It isn't hard to find the post office because the village is not that large to begin with.

Sam follows Dean into the store. He looks around while Dean speaks to the shop keeper, showing him the letters which were surprisingly dry from the water attack by Peeves.  
Sam can only recognize a few of the owls that are perched in the shop. The snowy owls were quite obvious, as were the barn owls, but there were also large grey ones with horns, little brown ones with bright yellow eyes. Most of the owls ignored the new occupants in the shop and rested in their nests along the walls, but some were watching him with their wide eyes. Sam found it a little disconcerting. 

Some of the owls were even bigger than Bobby's ravens. Sam doesn’t know how inconspicuous owls would be in Britain, especially if letters were being delivered during the day. He thinks that for all the complaints that he’s heard from British magical-folk about Americans, they’ve gotten some things right over the years. 

Sam makes his way to the counter where he sees a newspaper. He picks one up and flips through it. 

"Are you going to buy that, or just read it and leave it there?" The shopkeeper snaps, breaking off his conversation with Dean which Sam notices now had been growing steadily louder. 

"Uh...I can buy it."

"Yeah, just add it to my tab which is _already too freaking large."_ Dean bites back at the shopkeeper.

"This isn't a bargaining system, boy. We have standard rates for mailing letters internationally. You want two birds to fly over the Atlantic and back and you don't want to pay full price for it? I have half a mind to throw you out of my shop!"

"I will throw those over-grown chickens into a fireplace and floo them to America with these letters, but I'm not paying ten freaking galleons to do it!"

"Sioux Falls is only about a five hour drive from the Roadhouse." Sam reasons. "Why not just send one bird with both letters? How much would that be?" The shopkeeper glares at Sam. and looks a little miffed that he won't be getting as much profit as he had hoped. 

"That would actually be cheaper. It would only be six galleons and four sickles." 

"Well why didn't you tell me that in the first place?!" Dean slams his hands on the desk, causing some owls to hoot angrily. 

"For all I knew, you were sending those letters to opposite sides of America!" Sam thinks that the shopkeeper must have more of an idea of American geography than he is letting on. 

Sam quickly pulls out his wallet and puts the galleons and sickles on the counter. "And how much for the paper?"

"One knut. But if you would like a subscription, I could set that up for you as well. It would be one knut a day that you would put into the the pouch of the delivery owl."

"Okay, that would be great." Sam makes it out of the shop before Dean can start throwing punches. 

"That old man is a swindler. Bobby and Ellen better appreciate those damn letters." Dean says as the shop door slams shut.

“If it makes you feel better, you paid six galleons for the letters, but it would have costed a lot more to pay the medical bills after Ellen ripped you limb from limb the next time we see her.”

“It might still happen. I wouldn’t be surprised if we got ourselves a Howler in the coming weeks. If not from Ellen, then from Jo.” Dean tries to rub the tension from his face. “I could really use a drink.” 

As it turns out, they are in luck because there is a dingy bar in the village labelled as the ‘Hog’s Head.’ 

The brothers can tell that the establishment is used to regular clients as their eyes adjusted to the dimly lit pub. Sunlight didn’t even penetrate through the grimy windows. Sam felt that he and Dean stood out awkwardly in their new teaching clothing. 

But the barkeeper barely looks up from the glass he is cleaning when they enter. “Jus' sit wherever. I will get to ya in a mo’.” Dean and Sam choose a table by the wall where Dean can watch the front door and Sam can keep an eye the rear exit. Whether it is a conscious decision or instinct, they can’t even tell anymore. 

Sam pulls out the newspaper that he had bought at the post office and continues to look through it. 

There is a whole lot of information that he doesn’t understand, having only been in Britain for a few weeks. But there is a small article speaking to the fallout of a flying car being sighted by muggles on Sunday which he remembers was caused by two students. The government was still performing memory charms on no-mags. Sam turns the page to see a small article that’s headline caught his eyes. It doesn’t even have a picture associated with it, though an inky mouse is sitting on most of the article. Sam shoos it away with his finger and it scampers away to nap on a different article. 

"Hey Dean. Read this." 

Dean takes the paper from Sam and reads the article, his brow creasing. He looks up at Sam. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. It sounds like our kind of thing."

"Except that our kind of thing is in America where there are fifty different states that we can hide in if we need to disappear after a hunt."

"But people are getting hurt! We should do something."

Dean is saved from having to answer right away by the barkeeper. "Name's Aberforth. What can I git for ya?"

Sam orders a coffee while Dean gets one of the beers that are on tap. Aberforth waves his wand and the two drinks make themselves and fly over to their table. "Anythin else?" Dean and Sam shake their heads and go back to the article when Aberforth leaves. 

Dean contemplates the article that Sam’s found. "I'm not saying that we will go for it, but if we do, it will need to wait until Saturday. We could probably disappear for a while that day without anyone noticing. Where is the case again?"

Sam checks the article. "Galloway." 

"Where is that?" Sam shrugs, making a face. "Well then Google it." Dean says. Sam just levels his stare at Dean. "Damn it! What I wouldn't give for an internet cafe.” Dean takes an angry drink from his glass. 

"The library at Hogwarts is pretty great. We might be able to find something on Scottish folklore which could point us to why those people ended up dead in ponds." 

"I would say vampire because of the drained blood, but that doesn't fit their m.o." Dean looks at Sam and sighs, defeated. Alright. If we can figure out what is the cause of this before Saturday, we can apparate to Galloway," Sam moans in anticipation of the future discomfort, "and then get back before anyone knows we're gone."

"Okay," Sam agrees, "but you've got to help me with research." 

"Fine." Dean says, it like he will do it begrudgingly, but Sam has heard the same tone used many times. Usually when Dean’s pretending to be the more mature and restrained one of the two. Dean wouldn't turn down the opportunity to prevent more people from dying. 

Dean finishes his beer and then flags down the barkeeper, asking for two more glasses of beer. He slides one of them to Sam when they land on the table.  
"Give it a try. This stuff is pretty good."

Sam does and makes an appreciative noise. The rest of their time in the bar is spent making small talk with each other, discussing anything but their new case. Sam figures there will be plenty of time for that later. And chances were, the monster was something they'd never encountered before so there was no sense wasting brain power on it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: So, I was thinking that I wouldn't get an update in this week because I was supposed to start my new job today, but the heavens had opened up last week and it was pissing rain for three days in a row. And my job's an outside one that you can't do it when the ground is covered in water :P So, I have another week off before I start and regular updates might become a thing of the past.
> 
> Actually relevant to the story, I headcannon that American magic people refer to wizards as warlocks. That's why I have Sam and Dean say Warlock instead of wizard in conversations. Same sort of reason why I don't say muggles, but rather, no-mags (even though it's a stupid-ass name and Rowling could have done better. Yeah, I know that it's spelled No-Maj, but that is even dumber. Where did the 'j' come from. I have so many questions.)
> 
> Bless all of your faces for being so kind in the reviews you leave. I honestly become a smiling mess every time I read one. Keep being awesome! (And sorry for the many spelling mistakes which are probably everywhere. I just didn't feel like editing it again.)


	12. Don't Ask me no Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Well it's true I love the money and I love my brand new car,_   
>  _I like drinkin' the best of whiskey and playing in a honky tonk bar._   
>  _But when I come off the road, well I just got to have my time,_   
>  _'cause I got to find a break in this action, else I'm gonna lose my mind"_   
>  _So, don't ask me no questions, and I won't tell you no lies._   
>  _Don't ask me about my business, and I won't tell you goodbye."_   
>  _\- Lynyrd Skynyrd_

Sam stares at the map on his desk with dull eyes, still not quite awake on the early Saturday morning. The map of Galloway is not the frustrating part; trying to find the best location for him and Dean to apparate to the hunt is. 

“This place is literally just countryside.” Dean says. He sits at the foot of Sam’s bed, impatiently fiddling with his switchblade. “We could apparate into the middle of a road, stand there, and no one would see us there for at least an hour.” 

“That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.” Sam says. “I’d rather apparate to an area with tree cover and not even see another person, if possible.” 

“Apparating into the middle of a tree isn’t how dryads are made, Sam.”

This hunt makes Sam feel anxious. Usually he and Dean are able to visit the town which is nearest to the supernatural attacks and gather information first-hand. To their credit, they have made a solid case using resources and archived papers from Hogwarts’ library, but it is difficult coming up with a failsafe plan without having actually been to the site of the killings. If Sam is honest with himself he isn’t even sure if they will be able to find the glastig. Maybe it’s had its fill of the local hunters and is done draining their blood for another decade, or maybe it will just not decide to appear when they’re hunting. There are far too many ‘maybe’s’ for Sam to feel totally confident in this hunt.

A light rapping on their door startles both brothers. Dean stops fiddling with his blade and tucks it into his fist but neither brother moves.

“What, are you waiting for me to get it?” Sam asks Dean.

“It’s your room! You get it!” Dean hisses back.

A conversation made up of widening eyes and angry gestures results in Sam opening the door. 

“Oh. Good morning, Professor Dumbledore.” The old warlock looks surprisingly put together considering how early Sam and Dean were up to finalize their travelling plans.

“Good morning, Sam. I was hoping I could have a word with you and Dean before you both head out.” Sam’s eyebrows scrunch together for a moment before he brings his face back to a more neutral expression. Maybe he and Dean’s research hadn’t gone unnoticed after all. He pulls the door open fully to allow Dumbledore to enter. 

“Morning, Sir,” Dean says, putting on a grin, pretending the man’s visit is just a social call.

Dumbledore nods at the older Winchester and then turns to face them both. "Well, there is no sense of me beating around the bludger. I want to discuss the little venture you have planned for the day."

Sam cocks his head to the side. "Sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about, sir. Dean and I are just getting ready for our morning run."

"With your bags packed full of, what I presume are weapons and some travelling supplies, and a map of somewhere which I know is not anywhere near Hogwarts on your desk?" Sam shrugs, hoping Dean can come up with something believable, but his brother is silent. 

Dumbledore waits. 

Finally, Dean stands up from the bed, shoulders straightened and eyes narrowed. "We're going on this hunt whether we have your permission or not. It's what we do." 

Dumbledore sighs. "I did not come here to try dissuading you, Dean. I'm merely here to offer some advice. 

"The portraits around Hogwarts are hung for more than just decoration, and there is not much that occurs within these walls which I am not aware of." Dumbledore levels his stare over his glasses at the Winchesters. "In the future, I merely request that you ask for some time off to, say, explore the Scottish countryside so I may know where my staff are in case they do not return. That way I will be less surprised if I get a call that they are occupying a muggle's holding cell, or have been brought into the Ministry for questioning." A smile creeps onto his face. "It would also be useful if I could support whatever story you two have come up with to explain your actions rather than contradicting you."  
Sam shakes his head, not really believing that they have the Headmaster's permission to continue hunting. Dean on the other hand is almost seething. "We have been hunting for years. Practically since birth. You're _not_ our keeper." 

"You are right. I am not,” Dumbledore concedes, but his tone is sharp. “However, while you are under my employment, I am responsible for anything you get up to. In case you have forgotten, I am also the cause for the, shall I say, questionable circumstances surrounding how you made your way to Scotland without plane tickets or an official portkey. I hope you will just humour an old man and let me know when you plan to cause a potentially compromising situation for me."

Sam ducks his head, avoiding Dumbledore's eyes. "Yeah, we can do that." Reluctantly, Dean nods as well. 

"Thank you very much. I will leave you to your, hiking trip I presume?" Dumbledore asks with a smile. "I hear there are nice forests and lots of wildlife in Galloway." With that, he leaves the room. 

"We didn't mention where we are going, did we." Sam states.

Dean doesn't bother responding and turns back to the map. "Let's just apparate here." He points to the shoreline of the Clatteringshaws Lake. "If we find ourselves knee deep in water, it shouldn't be a problem because we'll just take out this glastig and be on our merry way.”

-.-.-.-

If only things could be that easy for the Winchesters. 

Apparating to the shoreline of Clatteringshaws Lake worked out well. Dean’s precision meant Sam didn’t even end up with wet feet. But his stomach on the other hand…

“Just breathe. Deep breaths.” Sam is about to heave the apple he had for breakfast all over the shoreline despite Dean patting his back. “Maybe we should just bring the Impala over if this happens every time.” Dean sighs to himself.

“Jusneeda. Minud.” Sam’s words slur and his breath hitches as he catches his food and swallows it back to his stomach. 

“What you need is some Gravol.”

Sam gives Dean a smile with probably only makes him look more pitiful. He holds a hand out to Dean who rises from his crouching position beside Sam and helps his brother up.  
“Okay. Time to get ourselves lost. Do you have your phone on you?”

Sam reaches into his pocket and turns it on. After he gives it a minute to boot up, he checks his reception. “I have a grand total of zero bars.”

“Damnit. We should have thought of that.” Dean frowns, running his hand through his hair.

“Do we really need to split up?”

“This thing has never shown up to more than one person at a time, that we know of.” Dean points out. “I’d rather follow the pattern we know will get it to show up than risk just wasting our Saturday with brotherly bonding.” 

Sam huffs. “Jeez, thanks Dean.”

“You know what I mean. I want to gank this thing yesterday. It’s already killed two people while we were busy doing research.” Sam feels a pang of guilt. It wasn’t really their fault, but he couldn’t help but feel like he could have prevented it somehow if he had just been better at…something. 

Dean suddenly snaps his fingers. “Got it! We can send a patronus to signal when we’ve killed the thing, or if we need help.”

Sam picks up his bag from the shore, finally regaining full control of his body. “Well then, I’ll see you soon.” Sam turns away from Dean and waves in parting. “Come back with all of your blood inside your body, okay?”

“No guarantees, Sammy! All monsters want a piece of this.” Sam turns to see Dean with a hand on his cocked hip. Sam faces forward again with an eye roll which practically carries him the rest of the way into the forest. 

-.-.-.-

It is harder than Sam would have thought to get lost in a forest he’d never been in before. He had grown up learning how to form a mental map wherever he went and habits like that weren’t broken easily.

_‘Remember to always have an escape route, Sam. How are you supposed to save people if you’re just as lost as they are?’_

The voice of John Winchester floats into his head before Sam pushes it out again. He may want to take his mind off of mapping the forest, but he doesn’t want to think of that.  
Sam is half tempted to just stare at the ground for a mile or two, but then the glastig could easily get the drop on him. He settles with just trying to make himself forget the mental map he had already created. And to stop marking it with more abnormal trees or rocks which would help him find his way back to the lake. 

With a Smile, Sam pictures Dean humming classic rock song to himself out of habit, using them to measure how far he’s walked in each direction before stopping himself.

Three minutes west to Werewolves of London.

Space Oddity for five minutes heading south.

It is only after he imagines hearing Dean whistling to fill the silence of the forest that Sam notices the absence of bird calls and the sounds of other wildlife. A feeling of unease comes over him. 

Something is definitely wrong with this forest. 

He almost thinks it’s his imagination that the sky gets darker, but rain starts to break through the tree cover and his shoulders slump. Sam reaches behind himself to make sure the gun tucked into his belt is covered by his bag so it doesn’t get soaked. He also ensures the iron rod hooked to his belt is in place but hidden beneath his clothes. He doesn’t doubt the fae they’re hunting can sense it at least a little, but maybe it will think it can get the drop on him before he can pull it out. 

With a deep sigh, Sam contemplates whether he wants to be the one to get lost first. He can practically hear Dean teasing him about his navigation skills getting rusty if after only – Sam checks his watch – two hours of wandering the forest he can’t even trace his steps back to the lake. His mind wanders again.

Teaching at Hogwarts had done Dean well so far. It had been good for both of them to get away from their problems in America and instead, help out a friend of Bobby’s. It was reminding Sam that there was a purpose to their life besides just hunting. It made him realize they had talents beyond being able to hunt – they were also able to teach other people how to protect themselves. 

In the weeks leading up to Dumbledore’s visit, there had been more arguments between the Winchesters. Taking a few more minutes into the shower became a Spanish Inquisition whether Sam was injured or just waiting for the worms. Dean forgetting to hang up Sam’s fed outfit led to a fight over Dean being selfish and Sam being ungrateful.

Sam isn’t proud of these arguments. They could just be side effects of never getting any time to himself to actually live his life. Every moment of their day is spent trying to help other people, and it is hard to live like that. 

But that’s the hunter life.

And something about the life is bothering his brother, too. But Sam can’t seem to place what it is. There had been one too many close calls on hunts lately for him to truly believe that everything is all right in Dean’s head. 

_‘Maybe he is feeling the same constant pressure I am,’_ Sam realizes with a start. For some reason, Sam had always assumed that Dean was always calm and collected. He was the older brother. He didn't break under pressure. 

Sam can see now how that might have been selfish of him. He would need to bring it up with Dean, but how? His brother firmly believed in 'no chick flick moments.'

Sam has a lot of thinking to do.

-.-.-.-

Hours later, Sam is thoroughly soaked to the bone. He had only stopped walking to eat the sandwich Dean had gotten for him from the kitchens that morning, and he could now safely say that he was lost. He wonders if he should just use his patronus to speak with Dean to call off the hunt because it really isn’t looking hopeful with the glum weather.

A flash of white in the darkened forest catches Sam’s eye, breaking off his thoughts. He looks up to see the glowing white tiger of Dean’s patronus. 

Without a second thought, Sam takes his gun out of his jeans and chases the patronus through the forest. He comes close to turning over his ankle a few times while leaping over branches and dodging trees, but he manages to keep his feet. Images of Dean bleeding out or worse fill his head, but he continues his chase. _‘Don’t think about it. He wouldn’t be able to maintain his patronus if he was that hurt.’_

Sam finally reaches a clearing to see Dean on top of a small mound crouched over a figure in a green jacket. When he sees Sam he waves a hand.

a

“Sam! I found this woman lying here. She’s got hiking gear, so I’m guessing she was lost too.”

It was incredibly lucky they made it to her before the glastig could. Sam wonders how long she has been lying there. He is almost ready to walk up the mound to give Dean a hand, but something holds him back. It’s a strong feeling that something was wrong. Well, more wrong than a woman lying on the ground in a forest. It finally clicks that despite the rain drenching him, the woman and the hill look surprisingly dry. 

A faerie mound.

Sam looks at the hill with a new regard, and a feeling of dread comes over him “Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into Funkytown there, Dean.” He says carefully. Dean’s frowns at the codeword. “How about you come down with me to find something that we could use for a stretcher to help her.” Going against his instinct to protect the woman in front of him, Dean starts to stand up. 

With a quick movement, the woman latches her arms around Dean’s neck and brings him back to the ground. She releases him with a shriek when Dean presses cold iron to her face. Sam casts _Carpe Retractum_ , using his weight as a fulcrum to bring the woman off of the hill and onto the ground next to him.

“You’re on a barrow, Dean!” Sam grabs his own piece of cold iron and presses it against the glastig’s neck. The fae hisses and spits at him, but he maintains the pressure.  
Sam only lets go when a sharp pain blossoms over his face and shoulder. _‘It kicked me,’_ he thinks belatedly as he falls, glaring at the creature’s offending hooves. 

Dean is quick to take Sam’s place pressing iron to its neck. Not making Sam’s mistake, he uses his body to keep the creature’s pressed to the ground. 

“Aren’t you going to help your brother?” The creature jeers. 

-.-.-.-

Dean is pissed that the glastig got the drop on him. 

He had listened when Sam told him about barrows. He had heard Sam say they should watch out for them on the hunt. But he threw all of that out the window when he saw the woman on the ground, rushing to her without a second thought as to what danger he might be getting himself into. Too many people had met their end because Dean wasn’t quick enough. Maybe just as many died because he rushed into situations, but Dean’s mind doesn’t linger on that though. 

It is with relish that he presses his piece of cold iron against the glastig’s throat. He saw the way that it had gotten the best of Sam, so he uses his weight to hold it down. If only he was as good as Sam at spells without his wand, he could restrain it more and he wouldn’t have to train for the rodeo now under the bucking monster. 

Despite its blistering skin, the monster manages to hiss at him. “Aren’t you going to help your brother?”

Dean glances up at Sam, expecting to see him clutching his head and maybe bleeding a bit. But what he does see is so much worse.

Time seems to slow down. Or maybe it actually does. Because it feels like an eternity before Dean can look away from Sam.

Sam lies on the ground with both blood and rain running down his face. His eyes are glassy but even though they do not actually make contact with Dean’s own, they seem to be blaming Dean for what happened – for rushing into a situation and causing everything to go so terribly wrong.

Dean takes notice of the stupid things. Like the fact that Sam is wearing one of Dean’s shirts which must have gotten mixed up the last time they did laundry. He sees Sam’s hair drooping in front of his face and wonders what British barber shops are like, or if Sam would let Dean cut it like he did growing up. He thinks he should really get Sam out of the forest and stitch him up, maybe offering Sam some of the fire whiskey he had taken from the kitchens earlier that week. 

But the Winchesters deal in death. And Dean knows there is no way Sam is alive with his skull fractured that badly. 

Dean doesn’t realize his grip on the iron has slackened until he is head-butted by the glastig. He falls backwards.

“Dean, what’s wrong?” A quiet voice asks. It goes unheard by Dean as a ringing fills his ears. The wave of disbelief turns into a monsoon of anger which rushes through him, drawing upon his pain to fuel his rage.

His right hand finds his pistol while his left grasps his wand. The glastig has the audacity to smirk at him, but this is replaced by widened eyes when it realizes that Dean wasn’t panicking. Instead, he was standing and staring at her with burning intensity. “You son of a BITCH!” Dean growls, and both weapons sing. Dean fires his gun with deadly accuracy, while his wand holds both his piece of cold iron and Sam’s to the monster’s skin. 

While Dean is not sure what effect the bullets have on the fae, it sure makes him feel a hell of a lot better to see the creature’s face a bloody mess. Its glamour falls to reveal a misshapen creature with a goblin-like face and a raggedy green dress, fully revealing the goat legs which marked it as inhuman.

Just for good measure, Dean sets the fae alight. The fire burns strongly despite the rain. The danger having passed, Dean crouches to the ground, burying his head in his knees.  
Maybe it’s all a dream. Maybe he will wake up just like he had this morning. He had woken up early to check all of the weapons he was bringing, and left to the kitchens to grab some food for himself and Sam before knocking on Sam’s door to make sure he was up. 

Only one phrase runs through his mind as he refuses to look at Sam’s body:

_His fault his fault his fault his –_

“Dean! What’s wrong?” A hand on his shoulder causes Dean to swing a fist wildly at whoever was in the forest with him. The person manages to catch his fist, and Dean finally looks up. 

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, hardly believing his eyes. Sam’s head is bleeding a little from the glastig kicking it, but the wound isn’t nearly as bad as he believed it was. “But the glastig had bashed your brains out. I saw-” Dean trails off as the image of his little brother dead fills his mind again.

Sam shrugs and then winces at the pain. ”That doesn’t seem so far off. I feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse, and I probably need stitches on my shoulder and head. Magic might not work on wounds caused by fae.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Dean drags his eyes away from Sam. “I saw you. You were one hundred percent, kicked the bucket dead.” He feels Sam sit down behind him, resting his back on Dean’s.

“It could have been a glamour. You were on the barrow which probably affected how strong its illusions were for you.” There is a pause as both Winchesters listen to the rain falling around them in the forest. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Sam whispers, “But I’m fine. Really. We should make our way back to Hogwarts, though. I would kill another glastig for some pain killers right now.”

 

An unexpected smile cracks over Dean’s face. “ _You’d_ kill _another_ glastig? I did all the work for that one. Don’t try to take the credit on me.”

“Come on, man, I sacrificed at least a pint of blood for this hunt.” 

“And what were you going to do in that state? Bleed on it and hope the iron in your blood would eventually burn it?”

“It could have worked,” Sam huffs a laugh and gets up to dig through his bag. He tosses a roll of bandages to Dean. “Why don’t we argue how effective my strategy was after you patch me up. You can take a closer look once we're back at Hogwarts, but I really want to get out of this rain. 

Dean uses his wand to clean the blood around Sam's head wound before beginning to wrap the bandage. “Should we destroy that mound?” Dean asks. “It could cause more problems in the future.”

“No. It’s apparently really bad juju to destroy those things. Fae generally are peaceful tricksters; that one just went a little rogue.” Sam gestures to the smouldering ashes of the glastig. 

Dean finishes patching Sam’s head. “Let’s take a look at that shoulder.” Sam peels the shirt that he’s wearing off and looks at it with a frown.

“Sorry for ruining your shirt, Dean.”

“Yeah, you’d better be. If you didn’t want me to wear it anymore, you could have just asked. You didn’t have to bleed all over it.” Sam grins at his brother’s teasing which turns to a grimace as Dean’s hand brushes the wound.

“Unrelated to the shirt thing, do you want me to knock you out for the return trip?” Dean asks. “I’ll even use a wand to do it.”

Sam agrees that they could try it. Anything to avoid feeling that sick again.

“So,” Sam says in a tone that shows he doesn’t really expect an answer, “do you want to talk about what’s been bothering you these days?” 

“Not really,” Dean says shortly, tying off the bandage on Sam’s shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.

“I didn’t think you would, but I’m here if you want to talk about it, Dean,” Sam promises sincerely. Dean nods and uses his wand to clean up the rest of the site, putting all of their stuff back in their bags, and getting ready for the return trip. 

After slinging on his bag and Sam’s, Dean finally turns to his brother. “Thanks, Sam.”

The birds have begun singing in the forest again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this fic turns one year old this week! (June 8th) To celebrate this, I was thinking of writing some requested short stories for the winchesters in this universe. It can be something from their Ilvermorny days, growing up, or even something from Hogwarts, but I may use my own discretion if it might interfere with the other ideas I have for this story. If you're interested, comment or message me something that you would like to read, and I'll probably post it as a different work in this series. This fic really wouldn't be written without the feedback and encouragement that I get from you guys, so this is my way of thanking all of you :) 
> 
> On another note, thanks for being patient with this chapter! Work has been a lot of fun, but it totally wears me out.  
> I realized that I really needed some more conflict and angst in this story, but I didn't really have the time or energy to hash something out. So, here we are with Winchester feels written with the help of beer and coffee shops (both were consumed on different occasions. I didn't drink beer in coffee shops :P )


	13. Head Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Daylight, alright_  
>  I don't know, I don't know if it's real  
> Been a long night and something ain't right  
> You won't show, you won't show how you feel  
> No time ever seems right  
> To talk about the reasons why you and I fight  
> It's high time to draw the line  
> Put an end to this game before it's too late."  
> \- Foreigner

With Sam’s limp arm draped over his shoulder, Dean apparates from the forest to Hogsmeade. The alley is empty, just as he’d seen it when visiting the village earlier in the week. 

The crack of their arrival echoed back at Dean. The sound bouncing off of the alley walls seems all the more deafening compared to the quiet sounds that had been in the forest. Dean feels his heart begin to race at the echo. Because it wasn't an echo. It seemed too loud, and the sound didn’t seem to go away. 

A series of whip cracks. Rhythmic. Each followed by a scream.

_Sound kept echoing off of the four walls around him. The screams never seemed to die down. Sometimes his own screams were a part of the cacophony, but he couldn’t tell anymore. There was too much blood on him. Too much around him. Too much -_

A sharp pain from his knees causes the image of the dark room to become less tangible. _I’m not there anymore._ Blinking hard, Dean tries to follow some of the advice that Castiel had once given him. 

_Breathe deeply._ Check. Though his first inhale is shallow and keeps catching in his throat, he continues to draw breath steadily. He feels his heart rate slow marginally.

 _Focus on his surroundings._ The alley walls are not filthy like most cities Dean has been to; probably the result of semi-regular cleaning. It was definitely not…that place.  
Before he can dwell on those thoughts again, Dean turns his attention to the wooden crates stacked along the walls. They are in good condition. Probably going to be re-purposed instead of just thrown out. 

Dean notices that his breaths have become deeper and he lets his head drop in exhaustion. In doing so he notices Sam. Face down on the ground. Oops. 

Dean grabs his wand and quickly casts the spell to awaken Sam.

An unexpected wave of relief courses through Dean as Sam groans and lifts himself from the ground, visibly trying to figure out where they are. 

“Hogsmeade,” Dean answers before his brother can ask. He rises to his feet and makes a show of brushing his knees off. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want you to fall off balance again,” Sam grins at him, but Dean pretends to not see it. Nor does he correct Sam.

With a simple illusion to disguise Sam’s injuries and both of their blood stained clothes, they make their way to Hogwarts. Exhausted, they do not speak to each other at all. 

-.-.-.-

Dean closes the door to his room behind them and sits Sam down at his desk chair.  
“Alright, let’s get your head looked at.” Dean pulls out some bobby pins from his pocket which were usually used for picking locks. 

Sam winces as Dean unwraps the bandages around his head and pulls back his hair using the pins. “Sorry,” Dean mutters, examining the wound that hadn’t closed up as much as it should have by now. Dean casts a spell to remove the germs from his hands and wand before reaching out towards Sam with his magic. He can feel the resistance from the fae’s magic which has attached itself to Sam’s own magic. 

It felt wrong, as did all magical signatures which had become corrupted and diluted over the years since the original alphas. This magic was stronger though, the fae’s magic having a much deeper and raw feeling than many of the monsters in the Americas which had come from other continents. The magic of supernatural beings was always strongest where they originated. 

But eventually, Dean gets a grip on the magic and he opens his eyes to see a murky brown substance removing itself from the wound. Dean reaches around Sam to pull a potions bottle from his desk and place the magic in it. He places the bottle on the desk after corking it.  
“Alright, looks like you’re clean.” Dean sighs, noticing that Sam has broken out in a sweat from the pain, though he hasn’t made a sound.

“Breathe, Sam.” Dean chants the spell for healing, but the skin would not close over the wound. He tells Sam. 

“Figures. There’s probably some traces of fae magic. We might just have to do stitches.”  
Dean tries a numbing spell on the wound, but Sam tells him that it didn’t work. “Well in that case, take this.” Dean reaches into his desk and pulls out the fire whiskey he had taken from the kitchens earlier that week. 

“Cheers.” Sam lifts to bottle to Dean before taking several gulps. He hisses at the burn.  
Dean lets the whiskey work its magic on Sam while he fetches his no-mag medical kit. He finds the hooked needle and threads it in seconds thanks to the use of magic and grabs some tweezers.

“How are you feeling?” 

“So good.” Sam has lost his tense posture, much to Dean’s relief.

“Let’s hope it stays that way.” Dean begins stitching his brother up in silence. But eventually, Sam is the one who breaks it.

“I am really worried about you, you know.”

Dean hesitates for a moment before continuing his work. “You’re the one who just got his ass kicked by a glastig,” Dean ties off the knot several times and works on the next. 

“Yeah, but I’ll be better in, like, a week. You’ve been off for months.”

“Like I told you before, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But you don’t get it!” Sam turns around quickly and Dean drops the tweezers so that Sam doesn’t pull his current stitch. “It’s not your fault that the gang went after you. They had no right.”

“Sammy, just relax, you almost ruined your stitches.” 

“Cas agrees with me. He says the gang was likely the same one that went after mom,” Sam mutters, slouching in the chair once more. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You don’t know what I did,” Dean sighs, but Sam is too far into the whiskey to hear him.

Dean really should have just knocked Sam out to stitch him up. Maybe it was selfish of him, but he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts because the glastig’s illusion left him on edge and caused him to think about a similar situation that had caused him to be taken. He thinks of telling Sam that. Or even about what he had done while he was captured, and the torturing he had received and even dished out. And about how he had a meltdown when they got back to Hogsmeade.

But Dean only picks up the tweezers, spelling them clean once again, not quite willing to be alone with his thoughts. 

“Cas needs to start minding his own business.”

“I think he is kind of invested in how you’re doing. You guys have only known each other since Ilvermorny. And he got you out of…there.”

“I know.” Dean mutters. 

“Just…give him a call or something. He may be busy with The Garrison, but he’s still our friend.” Sam reaches for the fire whiskey and takes a few gulps. 

They settled into an uncomfortable silence, broken every so often by a grunt of pain or a sigh of weariness.

-.-.-.-

Dean doesn’t know how long it actually takes for him to finish stitching Sam’s head and shoulder, but the sunlight in the room illuminates everything in an orange hues when he finally ties off the last stitch. 

Dean eases Sam into his bed and sets an alarm for Sam to wake up every few hours. He hadn’t checked Sam for a concussion, but it was a pretty safe bet that he had one. 

Settling into his desk chair, Dean takes a few swigs of fire whiskey. It tastes a lot like Fireball back home, but there was something that made the burn a lot stronger. Dean leans onto the desk and glares and the bottle with the Fae’s magic. At first he thought it was a trick of the eye, but it was indeed moving. Slowly like molasses, despite its lack of substance.

He wants to throw it away. Destroy it for causing so much trouble, but instead he puts it on his shelf. One never knew when something like that could be useful. However, he did place some charms onto the bottle to seal the substance in. No harm in being too careful. 

Not wanting to sleep, Dean grabbed a piece of parchment and began to list off what he wanted to cover this week in classes. His fourth years might be able to handle a few lessons on fae. 

They didn’t need to know everything about them to the depth that hunters did, but knowing the rules that fae generally abide by could prove invaluable.

Dean scribbles down notes well into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeyyy guys. I'm so sorry about the lack of updates. School life is really hectic this year and I really haven't been writing much. Plus we're getting into plot stuff in this story which is less fun to write than just shennanigans. I also haven't forgotten about the requests I had offered to do, I just haven't been motivated to write them (though I have started them. You can find the first one in "Tales of the Magical Winchesters"). Please bear with me. 
> 
> And thank you so much to everyone kudosing and commenting on this story. Y'all hold me accountable for finishing what I start, so thank you.


	14. Distant Early Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"The world weighs on my shoulders_  
>  But what am I to do?  
> You sometimes drive me crazy but I worry about you.  
> I know it makes no difference to what you're going through  
> But I see the tip of the iceberg,  
> And I worry about you."  
> \- Rush 

That night wasn’t the worst sleep of Sam’s life, but it certainly wasn’t a good one.

Dean must have been concerned that he’d gotten a concussion because at least three times he’d woken up from his watch vibrating. Every time it did, Dean would lean over from where he was sat at his desk and ask him how he was feeling, _(I just got stitches in my head, Dean. Not good),_ and he poke his toes with a pen, asking if he could feel it before letting him drift off to sleep again.

When Sam finally wakes up in the morning, Dean is not in the room, but there is a glass of water, painkillers, and a note on the desk. Sam reaches for the note.

Pain shoots through his head almost causing him to collapse back on the bed. He stays there for a minute to get his breath back. 

Re-evaluating, he grabs the glass of water while remaining prone in the bed. He manages to get three pills from the bottle and downs them, waiting until the pounding in his head lessens before trying to sit up once again. 

Feeling less like the work is spinning, Sam reaches for the note again and this time, he is able to read it.

_Sammy,_

_Severus offered to look over our lesson plans today to see if we need to include any info about Dark Arts unique to Europe, or differences between the creatures back home and the OGs here. I’m meeting with him at 1pm. If you’re awake by then, you should join us - we’ll be in his office in the Dungeons. I don’t know the room’s location as he’s going to take me after lunch, but I’ll keep a concealment charm going on my tattoo so you can track my magic and find us._

_\- Dean_

Sam glances at his watch. 12:30. 

_Dammit._

Sam drags himself to his own room to clean up. He looks at himself in the mirror and cringes. The bags under his eyes are very pronounced, and his hair looks like a doxy nest. He glances at the stitches Dean had put in, hair still pulled away from it with bobby pins. It doesn’t look good. The wound is jagged, and red around the edges. He grabs some peroxide from his bag and dilutes it in a paper cup. He pours it on the wound and almost falls to his knees.

It stings. It stings much more than it should. 

Sam clenches the counter and takes some deep breaths, trying to push the pain away. Finally, he gets a grip on himself, and looks at his reflection again.

_‘Come on Sammy. We’re Winchesters. We don’t let something like pain hold us back. Isn’t that right, Dean?’_

“Thank you Dad for your shitty commentary,” Sam mutters. He straightens up and reaches for a hairbrush before looking at the stitches in his head. He reconsiders and mutters a spell to untangle his hair instead. The bobby pins fall to the floor, but he can’t be bothered to pick them up right now. A glance at his watch shows he had time to brush his teeth, grab his lesson plans, and then meet up with Dean. 

-.-.-

It took a little longer than Sam expected to get to the dungeons, and he hadn’t anticipated it being so difficult to navigate the corridors. Despite being able to sense Dean’s magic, he still had to find the hallways that actually led to Severus’ office. When Sam finally locates the room, he knocks on the door and it opens for him almost instantly. Sam can feel Dean dispel his concealment charm and so he lets go of his focus on Dean’s magic. 

“Hey Severus, thanks for offering to help us out.” Normally he would apologize for being late but Severus had a general predatory air about him, and at the moment he wasn’t going to show weakness, even for pleasantries.

“Hello, Sam. I was just about to read through Dean’s plans,” he holds up a small stack of white paper which looks comically out of place on the desk filled with parchment. Sam looks at the stack in his hand which is almost twice the size and grins sheepishly when he places in on the desk as well. 

It doesn’t take too long for Severus to go through Dean’s lesson plans. Sam is sure to take notes on everything so that it doesn’t take as long to go through his own. 

Sam had been worried since Dean’s ghost incident that there was a lot of information that they had missed or gotten wrong, but as it turned out, there had just been a few major ones which were different. Mostly the creatures which were once human, like werewolves, vampires, and ghosts. 

There was just something about the raw and established magic in Europe that helped the individuals who were turned maintain their senses and reason, for the most part. Werewolves were still senseless beasts when they turned, but could be pleasant people otherwise. Neither forms had a particular penchant for eating hearts. Vampires here had less sharp fangs, and were not as senseless with their feeding, and ghosts, as Dean had discovered, were generally still accurate representations of their living selves and kept to themselves for the most part.

Severus had been clear when he said that while the weaknesses would be good to cover in cases of protection, the ‘How to Kill,’ bits should be left out.

“We don’t want kids to think that they should grow up to be murderers,” he said pointedly. Sam’s jaw clenched as he recognized the jab, but then he inhaled sharply because it shifted the stitches on his head.

“Okay, what’s with that tone?” Dean growls.

Severus sits up straighter, one hand dipping into the left sleeve of his robe. “Only that I know your profession back in America, and I hope that the trouble you bring with you doesn’t make students think they need to go on crusades to eliminate magical creatures.”

To Sam, it looks like Dean is physically biting his tongue. It is a few moments before he says, “I’m not rising to your bait. Hunters do almost the same work as Aurors here.”

“Outside of the law, and without the same regulations,” Severus says, a sneer planted on his face.

“The law isn’t perfect, and neither are we.”

“So you are admitting that what you do is illegal?”

“Okay, stop the pissing contest.” Sam tries to be a voice of reason. His ulterior motive is to get them to stop yelling - his head is pounding enough without them shouting. He turns to Severus. “You and us? We’re both doing this job to prepare students for life when they’re done school, and to find careers. Many students who go through DADA choose to continue work as Aurors, or other government officials in charge of protecting people. If they don’t choose it as a career, then at least they have knowledge to keep themselves and their families safe.”

“I don’t even what to know what it is you think we do,” Dean continues, “but as hunters, we help people by finding criminal cases that have flown under the Congress’ radar before more people can get hurt. Innocent people who often have no idea about magic. Which is why we wanted to have the differences between American and European magic cleared up. 

“Now we have a better idea of what’s out there, so, thank you for your feedback on my lesson plans,” Dean says in a tactful attempt to defuse the situation. “I will incorporate what you’ve told me, and take out the bits which might be too much information for them as students.”

Just like at the dining hall, Severus seems surprised at the control Dean has over his emotions. He removes his hand from his sleeve, and from where Sam’s sitting, he catches a glimpse of a wand holster before the robe covers it again. 

“I’m sorry Dean,” Severus rubs a hand over his face. “It isn’t an excuse, but I have had…bad experiences with people who you remind me of.”

“Cocky pretty boys?” Dean smirks at the wide-eyed look Snape gives him. “I’m self-aware, what can I say?” 

“Frankly, yes. I will keep my emotions better in check in the future.”

“If you don’t want to look over my lesson plans, that’s fine. We can head out now,” Sam offers tentatively. 

“No, it is fine. If you’ll just give me a moment.”

True to his word, fifteen minutes later Severus gets through the last page. 

“So, is it any good?” Sam asks with a nervous smile.

“More than good, actually. You seem to have done some research since you initially typed these out. Most of what I was going to say was written in the margins. But there are a few differences that were missed. May I write on your pages?” 

-.-.-

Sam and Dean leave the office not long after with their papers in hand. They head towards the kitchens before anything else because Sam had missed breakfast and lunch. 

“So, you look like shit,” Dean says bluntly.

“Thanks, I feel like it too.” Sam tickles the pear and then grabs the knob that appears. 

“A normal feel like shit, or a ‘though it out, we’re Winchesters,’ feel like shit?” Sam gives him a look and doesn’t answer. Any answer he might have given would have been drowned out by the chorus of greetings from the house elves. Sam politely asks for a salad and a coffee to take to go. “Look,” Dean continues, leaning against an unused counter and dismissing the elves’ offers to get him a chair, “I’m worried. That glastig’s magic was pretty ugly.”

“We both have had worse injuries than I got yesterday. This is basically a papercut. Besides, it’s normal for a wound caused by magical creatures to not be healed by magic.” 

“There is a hospital wing in the castle.”

“Okay Dean, tell you what?” Sam raises his hands in frustration. “I’ll go to the hospital wing when you tell me what’s wrong. And don’t say nothing! We both know that’s shit.” Dean closes his mouth in a firm line and won’t meet Sam’s eyes. 

Pushing Dean only means resistance, and Sam knows that. He looks up to the ceiling to cool down. “I’m sorry. I know that you said you’d tell me when you’re ready, my head is just hurting and I’m hangry.”

“Here you are, sir!” Sam looks down and sees three boxes of food and two coffees in travel mugs.

“I only asked for a salad and a coffee, what is all this?” 

“Pardon Dusk’s assumptions sir, but it did not seem like just one salad would fill you up, and there were some left over desserts from lunch that might make sirs feel better.” The elf's ears droop. “Dusk can take them back. It is not a problem, sir. Dusk is sorry sir.”

“No no no. I was just surprised is all! Thank you for being so thoughtful.” Sam calls Dean over to get his coffee.

Dusk’s mood changes instantly and they stand much taller. “Is there anything else we can get for you both?” Sam shakes his head and thanks them. “Just doing our job, sir! Have a good day, sirs!”

As they leave the Dungeons, Sam shivers. He hadn’t realized just how cold and damp the castle could be, even on nice days such as this one. Maybe he could introduce Hogwarts to some dehumidifiers to warm the place up. Or maybe Dean could stop giving him the cold shoulder. That wouldn’t hurt either. 

He tells Dean his idea about the dehumidifiers, but leaves the other thought unspoken. 

They choose to sit on a bench outside in the courtyard with the desserts between them. He nods and smiles at some students who wave at them as they pass by on their way to wherever as they too enjoy the good weather.

Sam soon becomes very grateful that Dusk had given him a second salad because the first hardly fills him. It is during the second salad that he finally notices Dean has a piece of parchment out and is writing something.

“Wa da?”

“You’re disgusting,” Dean says as if he didn’t do the same thing several times a day. “I’m adding to our growing collection of apology letters. This one’s to Cas, because you guilted me into it when you were drunk yesterday.”

Sam swallows his mouth full of food. “You’re welcome?” 

Dean huffs with a smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Sam sits back and watches some birds flit around the courtyard. 

Dumbledore had said that they were doing him a favour when they took the job but right now, he couldn’t help but wonder if the old man had been doing them one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I realize that I write about food a lot in this fic. It's because I am always hungry, and the Dining Hall is the best place for Sam and Dean to meet up with people. 
> 
> Also, my justification for my less-of-an-asshole Snape is that although he is by no means perfect, the books are through Harry's perspective and his view of Snape is definitely biased because of how Snape treats him. But I do feel like I'm going too easy on everyone because I don't want them to be unhappy. And I am forever a pacifist, so just let the Winchesters be happy. Please. ~~Things will probably suck again soon.~~
> 
> As always, thank you for your encouragement and feedback. Leave a review to let me know what you think!


	15. Absolutely Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rollin' it over in my mind  
> And much to my surprise I find  
> That you were absolutely right  
> You've been right all along  
> You're absolutely right and I'm wrong"
> 
> -Five Man Electrical Band

The rest of Sunday had passed in a daze for Sam. After his brunch out in the courtyard with Dean, Sam retired to his room to go back to sleep.

He hadn’t anticipated sleeping until the next morning when his alarm went off. Despite the rest, his head felt no better. If anything, it felt even worse.

Sam gets out of bed reluctantly and somehow makes it over to Dean’s room. He opens the door and sees Dean sitting on his bed in his workout clothes, tying his shoes. 

“I’m not going out with you today. Too tired.” Dean sits up straight and his expression shifts to concern.

“You just slept for almost 18 hours, dude. Are you sick? I can teach your class today if you want me to.” 

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“He said as he was obviously not fine,” Dean quips and stands up. “Come on, Sam. Get back into bed. I can handle your lessons.”

“I feel fi- good. Just a little bit of a migraine. It should clear up by my first class.”

Dean waves his wand by Sam’s head and mutters a spell. Drawing the wand back to his own side, he flicks it. The crack that echoes in the room causes Sam’s face to scrunch up and he clutches his head. 

“That was a spell to cure a migraine and it didn’t help at all. Don’t lie to me, Sam.”

“You’re an asshole.” Sam grits out, his head now throbbing with renewed fervor.

“An asshole who kinda gives a shit about you and your stupid face.”

“Thanks, that warms the cockles of my goddamn heart,” Sam mutters.

Dean exhales a growl and runs his hands through his hair. If Sam wasn’t backing down, there really wasn’t much he could do but let him make his choices. 

Finally Dean glares at Sam. “The offer still stands. Just let me know and I’ll take over your class. Alright?”

But Sam’s already on his way out of the room. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. See you at breakfast.”

Dean chose to exercise without Sam that morning. He needed to do something to let out his frustration. 

-.-.-

Olivia was a muggleborn who had spent her years before Hogwarts in athletics. Her parents had thought that she would continue her schooling as a member of track, but all of that had changed with one owl carrying a letter. 

She didn’t mind the drastic change in direction, but she did begrudge Hogwarts for its lack of options regarding athletics. Surely not every student interested in sports wanted to fly around on brooms and throw balls back and forth. So, she had started a jogging club because she couldn’t have been the only one at the school who wanted to stay healthy.   
Olivia had been right, and several students joined her through her years at Hogwarts. Now in her seventh year, she was happy to have kept that part of herself despite the ease magic provided. But it made her realize that physical fitness was not the forte of many students. 

Which was why when Professor Winchester collapsed in front of his morning class, she had been one of the first to her feet. But she didn’t know what to do as he lay on the floor convulsing. 

A Ravenclaw student who she’s seen interning at the infirmary rushes to the teacher’s side sparing only a moment to glance at his watch before grabbing a book. He transfigures it into a cushion to put under Winchester’s head. He turns to the class.

“Someone go get Madam Pomfrey!”

So Olivia runs. 

Somewhere along the way, she kicks off her uncomfortable dress shoes and charms her socks with a no-slip charm so she doesn’t crash to the floor, but she keeps running, taking the stairs two at a time despite her legs starting to burn. 

“Hey!” Olivia does not stop, but she didn’t have to because the person who had shouted at her was now jogging beside her. She is shocked to see that not only was it Professor Dean, but that he is keeping up with her. “What’s happening?” 

Olivia gasps out, “Winchester collapsed. Getting Pomfrey.” She hears Dean swear and she only glances back long enough to see him begin running back towards the classroom. She too has a little brother, and she can only imagine what is going through Dean’s head right now. 

But this is the best way she could help, so she keeps running. 

-.-.-

Dean barrels down the stairs towards the classroom, narrowly avoiding the students in his way. At Sam’s classroom, Dean all but skids in. He notices the student kneeling over Sam who was lying on the ground with a pillow under his head. 

“Convulsions?” Dean asks. 

The student nods. “Two so far. One for a minute and a half, another just over a minute.”

Dean pats him on the shoulder before leaning over Sam’s head to check his stitches. He curses. 

It looks bad. He thought Sam would have told him if it hadn’t been healing right, but apparently not. The wound which had been hidden under his hair is angry red and festering. No wonder Sam had been in pain. But that didn’t explain the convulsions. 

Dread fills Dean’s heart. 

Unless he hadn’t actually been able to remove all of the fae’s magic from the wound. 

Letting out a litany of curses, Dean rises to his feet. “You’re doing great,” he praises the boy in the blue tie. “If Pomfrey comes in, tell her it’s fae magic.”

Despite his confusion, the student nods and checks his watch again as Sam begins to convulse once more.

Dean tries to focus on not running into students as he runs to his room. Images of his brother convulsing on the classroom floor blend into visions of his lifeless eyes staring up at him in a forest but he somehow manages to find his way through the hallways and throws open the door to his room. 

“Accio potion bottle!” 

The bottle was filled with the fae magic he’d removed from Sam’s head launched itself from his desk into his hand. Dean doesn’t even bother closing his door as he tears off back to the classroom. 

Outside were students who had been told to leave the room but were still lingering, waiting for any news. Dean pushes past the few who hadn’t seen him coming and swings the door open. It seemed that Madam Pomfrey had arrived and had her handbag set beside her as she examined Sam’s head wound. The same student is still there, lingering and waiting for any orders from the woman. 

“It was a glastig,” Dean rattles out as he jogs to the front of the room, “Two days ago he got attacked by one. He has another wound on his chest. I’ve got some of its magic here.”   
Pomfrey takes all of the information with a nod and grabs the bottle from Dean. She tuts as she holds it up to her eyes and then retrieves some items from her bag using Accio spells. Dean wants to help in any way he can, but he realizes that he’d only be in the way. So he lets the Matron do her job, and listens to her explanations to the student. 

“We need to break down the magic to isolate its components. That way we can make sure that none of the magic is lingering.”

“Alright. Now that I know what I’m looking for, I’m just going to locate it with my own magic and extract it like this.”

She does the same spell that Dean had, but removes more of the brown substance from the wound. Far more than Dean had expected there to be. Pomfrey directs the student to remove the stitches and flush out the wound with water. She then turns to Dean.

“The other is on the front of his shoulder?”

Dean confirms and watches her draw her wand across Sam’s shirt to cut the fabric and she does the same procedure on that wound with the same results. She cleanses this wound herself.

The entire procedure felt much longer than the few minutes that it actually took. Eventually Pomfrey stands up and brushes her hands over her apron to straighten it. “I’d like to hold him in the infirmary for the night. I plan on doing some rituals that will cleanse any of the glastig’s magic that might still be lingering, but Sam is fine now.”

The tension leaves Dean and he feels instantly weary. He follows the matron out of the room as the stretcher she had pulled out of her bag floats behind them carrying Sam. The student follows behind it, making sure the other students gave them their space. 

”He is fine now, go about your days!” Pomfrey snaps, and the students disperse sheepishly, some returning to the room to grab things they had forgotten in the commotion.   
Dean walks with Pomfrey up to the infirmary and helps her set up the incense and conduct the smudging in order to purify the room. Dean kicks himself for not thinking of doing this initially, but says nothing while he works.

Once the student leaves, Pomfrey turns to Dean, and he feels like she is staring right through him when she says, “I know for a fact that there are no glastigs native to the areas around Hogwarts.”

Dean figures he owes her an explanation for the trouble. So he reluctantly explains how he and Sam hunted monsters back in America, and they had gone on a hunt this weekend.   
She purses her lips but does not say anything for a long time. “Well, seeing as you know a lot about magical creatures, it was incredibly stupid of you both to not seek out help with treating Sam’s injuries.”

Dean winces at the bluntness of her tone, but she continues, unrelentingly. “You are both adults, and I can’t stop you from making poor choices but if either of you do get injured like that again you can come to the infirmary. It would certainly prevent a situation like this from reoccurring.” 

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you again,” Dean makes to leave the room.

“There was something else, Mr. Winchester.” Dean stops and turns back to Madam Pomfrey.

“When I was cleansing Sam’s injuries, I felt something else that was far beyond the glastig’s magic. It seemed like a curse, but it was old and deeply rooted into his being. I’m not going to pry because it doesn’t have an immediate effect on his health, but please be aware of it, if you aren’t already.”

Dean thanks her once more and leaves the room, even if he would have rather stayed with Sam until he woke up.

It’s all he can do to not punch the wall.

They just couldn’t catch a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Who ordered all of these Perspective Changes with a side of What am I Even Doing Anymore?
> 
> I hope to have more frequent updates like last summer because I am now officially finished my undergrad! I just hope I can keep finding regular inspiration for this story. Thanks again for all the kind comments and reviews. You guys are too good to me.


	16. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"But listen carefully to the sound_  
>  Of your loneliness  
> Like a heartbeat drives you mad  
> In the stillness of remembering  
> What you had,  
> And what you lost.  
> Now here I go again, I see, the crystal visions  
> I keep my visions to myself."  
> \- Fleetwood Mac

_"Where did you go, Dean?" Sam calls out as he wanders through the rooms of their motel. A part of him notices that this in itself is a little strange. Usually the motels that their dad rents only have a bedroom and bathroom. Yet as more rooms present themselves, he continues walking through them._

_Dean hasn’t been in any of the rooms so far, but he has to find him. Dad would be mad if he knew Dean was hiding from Sam like this. Sam nervously tugs on his hand-me-down shirt that is too large on him. “Come on, Dean. This isn’t funny anymore.”_

_Frustrated, Sam hops onto the kitchenette’s counter, maneuvering his short legs under himself so he can look in the cupboards._

_The first cupboard is empty. Sam isn't sure what he was expecting - Dean has never hid in the cupboards before. He usually chose to hide under the bed when they played hide-and-seek. But determined to make his search thorough, Sam shuffles across the counter to the next cupboard._

_Sam opens the door and finds a black void where the back of the cupboard should be. He feels a wave a nausea roll over him as he stares into the darkness. Sam finds himself leaning closer to it, hoping to maybe see what is within._

_All he sees is a darkness that is almost painful to look at._

_But he has to find his brother._

_"Dean?" His voice is timid and small, hardly making a dent in the darkness._

_Yet something hears him. And that something moves._

_A pair of glowing yellow eyes open and stare at Sam. He recoils in fear, causing himself to lose his balance and fall backwards._

_Sam doesn’t hit the floor like he expects to. He continues to plummet through more darkness, shouting the entire way for what feels like hours until he sees something in the distance above him. It is small, but quickly grows larger. The light begins to take shape, and Sam realizes with a start that it’s a creature made of fire._

_It could’ve been a lion, but for the wings and a snake tail. It plummets towards him with its jaw open. Other monsters also take form in the darkness, all of them looking predatory and hungry._

_Sam screams louder, but he can't get away from the monsters._

_His skin is burning._

_It feels like even his blood is on fire._

_One of the creatures bites his shoulder._

"It's alright. Just open your eyes. You're safe, Samuel"

_"You're mine, Sammy."_

Sam wakes up with a jolt. The brightness of the room a sharp contrast to the dark void in his dream. He finds himself glad that the light is from the sun and not creatures made of fire.

Sam’s head falls back onto the pillow, and it is then that he notices the concerned face of Madam Pomfrey. Though his heart is still racing, Sam relaxes enough that Pomfrey loosens her grip on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, Samuel?"

Sam closes his eyes and takes some deep breaths.

"Yeah. I'm good. Just a nightmare. Thanks for waking me up."

It has been years since he'd had that dream. Well, not specifically that one. But one with yellow eyes and creatures of fire. He’d had them a lot more often when he was a child. Sam remembered how Dean's comforting words were often the only thing that could get him to sleep again. But even though Dean was always adamant that it was only a dream, it had all seemed too real and too consistent. 

It hadn't been until he was older that he'd realized the fiery animals in his dream were actually fiendfyre – a deadly and nearly unstoppable inferno which was produced through some of the darkest magic. 

But he'd been having the dream before he'd even known about the dark magic of fiendfyre.

Pomfrey breaks his stupor. "Do you think that you are going to go back to sleep?" 

Sam shakes his head, in part to clear his thoughts, but Pomfrey takes it as an answer to her question.

"Then you should be well enough for me to let you know that it was incredibly stupid to leave a wound caused by a fae untreated. I already lectured your brother yesterday, but you should not hesitate in the future if you need medical assistance. I treat more than just students with stomach aches here.” She gestures to the hospital ward.

"You spoke to Dean yesterday? When?"

Pomfrey casts a spell and begins to check his medical status. "You collapsed in front of your seventh year class yesterday morning. You have been in my Hospital Wing since.  
Sam makes to sit up. "Shit! I've missed-"

"Nothing.” Pomfrey pushes him back onto the bed. She was surprisingly strong for her old age. “Your brother took over your classes so there is nothing to worry about." She puts her wand away. "Now, while there's nothing of immediate concern, I did notice yesterday that you showed evidence of a long-standing curse afflicting you."

_Yellow eyes stare down at him, unnaturally glowing in the night._

Pomfrey continues talking, but Sam only catches her question - "Do you know what might have caused the curse?"

"No clue,” Sam answers honestly. “I've come across a lot of different things in my life that might have done it. It could be anything. 

"It is deeply rooted which means it must have had at least two decades to settle. It also means that I cannot determine what the curse actually is.” 

Twenty years meaning he would have been four, or younger. His dad hadn't let him hunt until he was ten and he can’t remember facing anything that would have been able to curse him.

Sam doesn’t say any of that, though. Instead he only shrugs. "I’m not sure. But thanks for letting me know. I mean, it hasn't affected my life so far, so it can't be that bad. Can it?" The matron purses her lips but says nothing of it.

"Just take care of yourself, and come to me if you start to notice anything strange happening regarding your health. You are free to leave - just gather the things on your bedside table before you go, and come back on Saturday to get your stitches removed."

Sam looks to his right and is surprised to see a handful of cards and sugary treats. "Apparently some students wished to send their regards and gave them to your brother during their classes," Pomfrey comments before she turns to perform maintenance tasks in the hospital room. 

Sam isn't sure what to say, but he figures that collapsing in front of a room full of students made them pity you enough to buy you candy. 

With a groan, he gets vertical and straps his wand and holster to his wrist before gathering the cards and candy into his hands. 

Sam’s body feels stiff as he climbs down the staircase. He finds himself leaning on the railing to keep his balance.

Sam thinks that he must look pretty pitiful at the moment, but he marches on stubbornly even though he wants nothing more than to just sit on the stairs to rest.

He had to save face somehow after his fainting spell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hey guys, thanks for being patient with this chapter.
> 
> I've been getting a few questions about Sam's curse. If it isn't obvious with this chapter, I'm using Azazel's curse with the demon blood and such as an actual magical curse.


End file.
